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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


P53503 
.A52 
M3 
1901 


#^AJ\x. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

lilllillil 

00022058960 


38 


i 


/ 


*9 


&K 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


MARTIN   B 


a  Jftobel 


M3 


By 

Morgan  Bates 


New  York  and  London 

Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
1 90 1 


V 


Copyright,  igoi.by  Harper  &  Brothbrs. 

Ail  rights  reserved. 


TO 
FRANCIS    HOPKINSON    SMITH 


2 
o 


Book   I 


»."«« 

* 


MARTIN    BROOK 


Chapter  I 

JUDGE  NORTHCOTE  was  in  excellent  humor.  Not 
that  he  was  effusive — the  master  of  Elmhurst  was  never 
effusive  in  the  ordinary  display  of  feeling.  It  was  only 
by  a  slight  lessening  of  the  lines  in  his  grave,  high- 
bred face,  and  a  certain  quality  of  tone  in  his  never- 
omitted  "Thank  you"  for  service  rendered,  that  he 
sounded  the  key-note  of  the  household's  daily  life;  for 
as  the  master  was,  so  were  those  about  him.  Yet  "there 
was  nothing  of  intentional  tyranny  in  his  manner; 
merely  a  tacit  insistence  that  everything  should  min- 
ister to  his  comfort.  Because,  to  this  self-centred 
bachelor  of  forty — this  observer  of  deportment — each 
phase  of  physical  comfort  was  a  necessity,  in  the  nat- 
ural ordering  of  his  affairs. 

As  he  passed  along  the  wide  hallway,  this  first  glori- 
ous day  of  spring  in  the  year  of  grace  1 82 1,  out  onto 
the  broad  portico,  and  paused  at  the  top  of  the  great 
stone  steps  leading  down  to  the  parklike  grounds  that 
surrounded  the  mansion,  his  every  motion  was  an 
affirmation  that  the  name  of  Northcote  was  a  proud 
inheritance. 

And  as  he  stood  fastening  the  brass  hooks  that  held 
the  two  ends  of  the  velvet  collar  of  his  long,  blue  broad- 
cloth cloak  about  the  high -rolled  collar  of  his  blue 

3 


Martin  Brook 

broadcloth  coat — he  still  retained  the  cloak,  because 
of  his  admiration  of  Monroe  and  all  he  did — his  tall, 
slender  figure  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  that  por- 
trait of  a  Cavalier  which  hung  on  the  library  wall ;  but 
his  face  was  the  face  of  a  Puritan.  And  in  this  seeming 
contradiction  lay  the  history  of  his  house :  the  founders 
of  this  estate,  here  on  the  banks  of  the  upper  Hudson, 
had  brought  the  atmosphere  of  Virginia  into  the  out- 
posts of  the  Adirondacks. 

In  George  Northcote,  who  combined  the  graciousness 
of  the  South  with  the  austerity  of  the  North,  the  first 
Northcote  was  reproduced,  as  if  in  earnest  protest 
against  the  extinguishment  of  his  race.  The  high, 
receding  forehead,  the  protruding  brows  fringed  with 
heav3r  eyebrows  that  almost  met  above  an  arched  and 
sensitive  nose,  the  prominent  cheek-bones,  the  strong, 
clean-shaven  jaw,  the  straight  mouth  with  its  full  un- 
der-lip, the  iron-gray  hair,  brushed  back  and  worn  long 
in  the  neck,  were  the  signs-manual  of  the  Puritan;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  ease  of  carriage,  the  dignity  of 
manner,  and  the  tone  of  voice  came  to  him  from  the 
maternal  line — the  Fairfields  of  Virginia. 

Among  his  nearest  associates — associates,  be  it  un- 
derstood, for  George  Northcote  was  a  man  who  had 
man}7  acquaintances,  few  friends,  and  no  intimates — 
he  was  known  for  his  mannerisms  rather  than  his 
words.  Chief  among  these  was  the  pursing  his  lips, 
and  the  purring,  inarticulate  murmur  in  his  throat 
when  he  was  pleased;  the  wrinkling  of  his  forehead 
and  the  knitting  of  his  brows  when  things  went  wrong  ; 
the  exquisite  way  of  handling  his  curiously  carved 
shell  snuff-box — a  gift  from  the  great  Monroe;  and 
the  daint3T  but  significant  use  of  his  large  white  silk 
handkerchief  in  moments  of  intense  feeling.  This 
external  signal  of  his  mood  was  alwa3Ts  carried  in  the 
skirt  pocket  of  his  swallow-tailed  coat,  and  came  in 

4 


Martin    Brook 

play  only  when  a  tapping  of  the  snuff-box  was  in- 
adequate to  express  his  meaning.  But  this  was  sel- 
dom called  into  requisition,  because  in  the  placid  life 
at  Elmhurst  any  manifestation  of  emotion  short  of 
overwhelming  righteous  anger  was  held  to  be  a  social 
misdemeanor,  since,  with  the  putting  away  of  the 
rapier  and  the  silken  knee-breeches,  under  protest, 
Judge  Northcote  had  likewise  laid  aside  all  approval 
of  personal  contest.  The  slight  droop  in  his  shoulders 
showed  that  his  contests  nowadays  were  in  the  realm 
of  thought,  fought  out  in  the  solitude  of  his  library. 
Besides,  the  somewhat  sallow  hue  of  his  skin  indicated 
a  studious  and  subjective  mind. 

Still  standing  on  the  portico  of  Elmhurst,  he  gazed 
admiringly  towards  the  south,  across  his  large  domain 
— off  through  the  yet  leafless  forest  trees  that  filled  the 
grounds;  off  beyond  the  huge  iron  gates  in  the  low 
stone  wall  that  excluded  Elmhurst  from  the  highway; 
off  over  the  sloping  meadows  to  the  river-banks  and 
the  distant  hills  on  the  farther  shore.  For  this  estate 
was  his — Elmhurst  the  beautiful — rising,  on  a  natural 
mound,  on  the  north  side  of  the  Hudson,  just  where 
the  mighty  elbow  of  the  stream  turns  its  long  arm 
seaward.  The  main  edifice,  which  faced  the  south, 
flanked  by  capacious  wings  on  the  east  and  west,  and 
spanned  by  a  portico,  upborne  by  massive  Corinthian 
columns,  and  all  the  accessories  to  it,  bore  the  distin- 
guishing stamp  of  Time — the  evidences  of  the  Estab- 
lished. 

Established  in  every  sense  save  that  which  leads  to 
the  perpetuity  of  the  name  and  the  maintenance  of  the 
estate ;  for  in  the  midst  of  all  this  wealth  and  grandeur, 
there  was  no  mistress  of  Elmhurst  except  Margaret 
Wright,  the  widowed  sister  of  the  man  we  see — a  de- 
pendant on  one  who  has  never  permitted  himself  to 
comprehend  the  full  meaning  of  love. 

5 


Martin  Brook 

For  the  moment,  however,  this  thought  did  not  dis- 
turb the  judge,  as  he  leisurely  descended  the  steps, 
slowly  drawing  on  his  gloves.  His  attention  was  for 
an  instant  diverted  by  a  brace  of  shepherd  dogs,  which 
came  scampering  around  the  house,  tearing  up  the 
moist  sod  in  their  wild  gambols.  They  saw  their  mas- 
ter and  bounded  towards  him,  but  dropped  to  heel,  with 
eager,  sidelong  glance,  their  tails  pounding  the  ground. 
The  judge  spoke  kindly  to  them,  and  they  were  off 
again,  3Telping  with  joy. 

Eph  Larrabee,  the  gardener,  who  was  at  work  un- 
covering the  rose-bushes  by  the  east  wing,  called  re- 
provingly to  the  dogs,  but  they  did  not  heed  him  as  he 
came  out  to  the  gravel-walk,  fur  cap  in  hand,  and  await- 
ed the  approach  of  the  judge. 

A  tall,  gaunt  fellow,  this  Larrabee,  in  the  full  strength 
of  3Toung  manhood.  His  corduroy  breeches,  woollen 
stockings,  heavy  shoes,  and  blue  flannel  shirt  con- 
trasted strongly  with  the  elegance  of  his  emplo3Ter; 
but  his  air  of  independence  and  imperturbable  good- 
nature indicated  his  mental  and  moral  attitude  of  equal- 
ity before  the  law. 

"Have  the  bushes  withstoood  the  winter,  Larrabee V 
the  judge  asked,  looking  about,  as  if  questioning  the 
right  of  nature  to  be  disrespectful  here. 

"Yes,  sir/'  Eph  Larrabee  replied.  "Don't  know 
ez  I  ever  see  'em  looking  finer — not  sence  I  come  here  ez 
gardener.  'Specially  the  one  Mis'  Wright  thinks  most 
on.  We've  been  gettin'  it  in  shape,  up  on  3'our 
liberary  winder.  Mis'  Wright's  around  there  now,  at 
the  east  end,  givin'  orders.  Wonderful  how  that  there 
'Little  Jimmy'  bush  does  thrive." 

The  judge  resumed  his  walk,  without  repl3Ting,  go- 
ing around  the  house  to  where  his  sister  was  at  work. 
There  was  a  slight  increase  in  the  line  between  his  e3Tes: 
Larrabee's  words  had  evident^  awakened  a  painful 

6 


Martin   Brook 

memory;  but  he  did  not  speak  again  until  he  reached 
the  spot  where  Mrs.  Wright  stood,  her  back  towards 
him,  directing  the  handling  of  a  hardy  climbing 
rose. 

She  had  not  yet  observed  him;  and,  as  he  watched 
her  unaffected  interest  in  the  work,  he  saw  that  her 
face,  with  its  traces  of  some  deep  sorrow,  was  lighted 
by  a  look  of  tenderness  that  came  from  her  dark  eyes. 
Her  gray  hair,  puffed  out  over  her  ears  and  caught  in 
a  simple  knot  behind,  was  covered  with  a  wide-brimmed 
gardening  hat,  and  her  small  hands  looked  grotesque 
in  a  pair  of  thick  gloves.  The  slightness  of  her  figure 
was  apparent,  in  spite  of  the  dress  of  heavy  stuff  and 
the  soft  wool  shawl,  with  its  gay-colored  pattern  of  flow- 
ers on  a  background  of  white,  that  was  drawn  tightly 
about  her,  the  ends  tied  behind  her  slender  waist. 

"  Carry  that  branch  higher/'  she  was  saying  to  Eph's 
assistant,  who  was  perched  on  a  ladder  placed  against 
the  upper  window-sill. 

The  judge  went  closer  to  her,  and  spoke  as  gently  as 
his  habitual  habit  of  command  would  allow. 

"Why  do  you  not  leave  this  work  to  the  servants, 
Margaret  ?" 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  starting,  "I  didn't  know  you 
were  here,  George."  She  spread  her  hands  with  a  half- 
timid,  half-humorous  gesture,  and  held  them  up  laugh- 
ingly. There  was  a  touch  of  emotion  in  her  voice, 
which  she  tried  to  prevent.  "  I  know  you  don't  like  to 
have  me  do  these  things,  but  I  love  to  be  in  the  open  air. 
Isn't  it  a  glorious  morning?" 

"Yes,"  the  judge  said,  gathering  his  cloak  across 
his  breast. 

"Look,  George,"  Mrs.  Wright  went  on.  "I  always 
wish  to  make  sure  of  this  one  bush.  It  will  be  so  beau- 
tiful in  a  little  while. " 

The  judge  turned  away.     "  It  is  always  beautiful  in 

7 


Martin    Brook 

its  season.     Please  yourself,  Margaret.     Pardon  me  for 
questioning  your  choice  of  occupation/' 

"Thank  you,  George.  You  are  always  considerate/ ' 
Mrs.  Wright  replied,  sincerely,  for  to  her  the  judge's 
manner  did  not  convey  a  sense  of  unkindness;  but  to 
him,  as  he  walked  deliberately  along  the  winding  path, 
in  and  out  among  the  trees  and  shrubs,  towards  the 
main  avenue  of  the  grounds  that  circled  from  the  gate- 
way up  the  knoll  to  the  hospitable-looking  entrance  of 
the  mansion,  there  was  an  unintentional  rebuke  in  her 
words.  He  saw  a  vision  of  himself;  not  as  the  world 
saw  him,  but  as  he  knew  himself  behind  the  mask  of 
custom.  Was  he  deserving  of  that  tribute?  W^as  he 
considerate  of  her?  Was  he  ever  considerate  of  any 
one?  He  asked  these  questions,  as  he  had  asked  them 
a  hundred  times,  and  found  no  answer,  save  in  a  tinge 
of  self-reproach.  He  had  given  her  a  home;  but  was 
there  not  something  more  demanded  of  him?  And 
little  Jimmy — her  boy — who  had  planted  that  bush,  and 
whose  untimely  death  still  brought  that  look  of  tenderness 
into  the  mother's  eye!  It  was  too  late  now  to  think  of 
making  his  life  more  happy.     But  the  mother — ? 

He  faced  about  at  the  gateway  and  saw  her  still  fol- 
lowing him  with  her  eyes — saw  her  draw  off  the  mis- 
shapen glove  and  kiss  her  hand  to  him.  He  gravely 
lifted  his  hat,  with  the  air  of  a  courtier,  and  slowly 
turned  eastward,  out  on  the  earth  sidewalk,  with  its 
border  of  grass  and  row  of  shade  trees,  that  led  to  the 
village  of  Sandy  Hill. 

When  he  had  gone  from  view,  Mrs.  Wright  called 
Eph  Larrabee  to  her,  giving  him  her  final  orders. 

"Be  very  careful,"  she  said,  "that  this  bush  is  prop- 
erly attended  to.     You  know  how  highly  I  prize  it." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  do,  indeed,"  he  said.  "Seems  to 
me's  if  that  little  man  was  right  back  here  again  every 
time  the  spring  sends  new  sap  into  these  here  vines." 

8 


Martin    Brook 

"  My  precious  boy  is  always  with  me  in  my  thoughts/ ' 
she  said,  with  a  quaver  in  her  voice,  as  she  walked 
quickly  away. 

Eph  stood  stroking  his  stubbly  chin  until  she  disap- 
peared in-doors. 

"I  swan/'  he  said  to  the  man,  "I  hadn't  no  inten- 
tion o'  hurtin'  her  feelin's,  no  more'n  nothin'  in  this 
world.  I  guess  she  won't  never  get  over  thinkin'  o' 
little  Jimmy.  She  keeps  his  close  packed  away  in 
the  garret,  they  say,  an'  cries  over  'em  rainy  days. 
I  remember  when  Jimmy  planted  that  there  rose  cuttin'. 
Three  years  ago,  just  'fore  he  took  sick  and  died.  I 
swan!  to-day's  his  birthday,  sure's  I'm  alive.  Never 
thought  o'  that  when  I  spoke's  I  did.  How  time  does 
fly !  Little  Son  would  be  a  big  boy  now,  if  he'd  'a  lived. 
Brightest  little  chap  I  ever  knowed  for  a  fourteen-year- 
old.     But  them's  the  kind  that  gets  through  early." 

He  gathered  up  his  tools.  "Say,"  he  said,  "we'd 
better  hook  up  an'  get  a  load  o'  hick'ry  from  the  wood- 
lot." 

And  when  they  drove  away  his  mind  seemed  still  to 
be  running  on  the  unintentional  pain  he  had  caused 
Mrs.  Wright. 

"Gid  dap!"  he  cried  to  the  horses.  "Does  beat  all, 
how  queer  wimmin  folks  is!" 

Judge  Northcote,  in  the  mean  time,  had  gone  on  to 
the  village,  which  lay  within  walking  distance  east 
from  Elmhurst.  He  observed  that  the  old  post-road, 
now  transformed  into  the  one  main  street,  was  moist, 
showing  that  the  chill  of  winter  still  lingered  in  £he 
frozen  ground ;  but  there  were  signs  of  promise  in  the 
sky. 

He  reached  the  Episcopal  church,  which  was  nearest 
to  Elmhurst,  as  if  to  proclaim  the  approval  of  the  North- 
cotes,  but  far  enough  from  all  other  churches  to  main- 
tain its  dignified  divergence  in  theological  opinions; 

9' 


Martin    Brook 

he  passed  the  cottage  of  Dr.  Whittaker,  next  the  rectory, 
pausing  to  exchange  a  word  or  two  with  the  village 
physician,  who  was  just  driving  away  on  a  professional 
call,  and  then  continued  on,  beyond  the  Graham  home- 
stead, bowing  right  and  left  to  his  acquaintances 
until,  at  last,  he  reached  "the  Corners/'  where  the  old 
post-road  of  early  days  was  intersected  by  the  cross- 
roads of  the  wilderness. 

Here,  on  the  north  side  of  the  street,  stood  the  old 
colonial  inn,  with  its  wide  porch.  The  post-office  ad- 
joined the  inn  on  the  west;  and  next  to  this  were  the 
few  stores,  through  the  small-paned  windows  of  which 
could  be  seen  the  conglomeration  of  indiscriminate 
merchandise. 

The  judge  stopped  at  the  post-office  to  get  his  mail, 
and  to  observe  courtesies  with  the  leading  citizens — 
especially  with  the  Rev.  Rufus  Coulter,  rector  of  St. 
John's. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  grass-grown  street,  opposite 
the  inn,  was  a  two-story  stone  building,  on  the  ground 
floor  of  which  was  located  the  office  of  the  Sandy 
Hill  Weekly  Sentinel.  A  narrow  doorway,  reached  by 
three  stone  steps  that  projected  onto  the  sidewalk,  gave 
access  to  a  small  hallway  leading  to  the  editorial 
sanctum  in  front  and  the  printing-office  at  the  rear. 

In  this  quaint  old  building,  with  its  deep-set  win- 
dows, was  Judge  Northcote's  office,  for  although  a 
judge  by  title,  Mr.  Northcote  was  no  longer  on  the 
bench,  nor  even  in  the  active  practice  of  the  law.  The 
title,  however,  was  popularly  retained  because  it  be- 
fitted him,  precisely  as  his  knowledge  of  the  law  rounded 
out  his  scholarship,  and,  in  truth,  went  far  to  make  of 
him  the  man  he  truly  was.  He  had  become  a  publisher 
by  accident,  not  through  design:  A  loan  made  years 
before  to  a  struggling  printer,  who  had  founded  the 
Sentinel  at  this  crossing  of  the  highways,  and  then 

10 


Martin    Brook 

i 

passed  on  to  oblivion,  had  brought  to  him  an  opportu- 
nity to  experience  the  pleasure  of  refined  diversion  with- 
out imperilling  the  Fairfield  view  concerning  trade  or 
occupation. 

When  the  judge  had  finished  his  conversation  with 
the  rector — his  lightest  talk  in  public  was  never  less 
than  dignified  conversation — he  flung  his  cloak  back, 
holding  his  handful  of  letters  and  papers  before  him, 
like  documents  of  State,  and  carefully  picked  his  way 
across  the  street,  avoiding  the  mud  and  tiptoeing  on 
the  unhewn  stepping-stones  up  to  the  door  of  his 
office. 

As  he  attempted  to  enter  the  place,  his  way  was  blocked 
by  a  ragged,  barefooted  boy  who  was  lying  asleep  on 
the  doorsteps. 

The  appearance  of  the  child  offended  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded. 

The  boy  sprang  up,  pulled  a  tattered  cap  from  his 
tousled  head,  and  said : 

"Are  you  Judge  Northcote?" 

"Yes." 

"  I'm  waiting  for  you,  sir." 

"For  me?  From  whom?"  He  looked  the  boy  over 
austerely,  taking  in  every  uncouth  detail,  from  the 
mass  of  tangled  blond  hair,  the  hunger-pinched  cheeks, 
the  alert  blue  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  watching  for  a 
pursuer,  the  dirty  woollen  shirt  and  frayed  trousers, 
down  to  the  swollen,  frost-bitten  feet. 

"I've  come  to  ask  you  to  help  me,  sir,  if  you  please," 
the  boy  replied,  looking  directly  into  the  judge's  eyes. 
"Any  kind  of  work,  sir."  Then,  catching  a  nod  of 
refusal,  he  added,  eagerly,  "  I  can  do  anything  on  the 
place — or  garden — or  horses.     I'm  a  hard  worker,  sir." 

"I  do  not  need  more  help,"  the  judge  asserted,  push- 
ing the  boy  aside. 

The  child  held  out  an  imploring  hand. 

II 


Martin    Brook 

"Mr.  Larrabee  said  you  always  had  lots  to  do  on 
your  place,  sir,  and  I  thought  maybe — " 

"Larrabee?"  the  judge  interrupted  with  a  frown. 
"Did  he  send  you  here  to  me — in  this  condition?" 

"No,  sir.  I  heard  him  tell  Mr.  Jacobs  so,  one  day 
when  he  stopped  us  on  the  road  and  asked  if  we  had 
any  potatoes  to  sell.  I  helped  unload  'em  in  the  barn 
cellar — " 

"Jacobs?     Who  is  Mr.  Jacobs?"  asked  the  judge. 

"  He  is — I  mean,  he  was  my  master." 

The  judge  tossed  both  flaps  of  his  cloak  back,  shifted 
the  mail  to  his  left  hand,  took  the  boy's  chin  in  his 
gloved  right  hand,  and  turned  the  little  peaked  face  to 
i he  sunlight. 

"Your  master?  You  are  not  a  negro;  you  are  a 
white  boy." 

"Yes,  sir,  but  he  was  my  master,  just  the  same. 
I'm  bound  out  to  him  till  I'm  twenty-one,  but  I've  run 
away." 

"Oh!"  said  the  judge.     "Why  did  you  run  away?" 

The  boy's  hands  clinched  and  his  lips  grew  firm. 

"  'Cause  he  hit  me  with  a  trace-chain." 

"A  trace- chain?"  the  judge  repeated,  doubtingly. 
"What  had  you  done  to  make  him  do  that?" 

"I  guess  he  was  drunk,"  the  boy  said,  drawing  in 
his  breath  tremblingly.  "  He  'most  always  is  when  he 
comes  home  from  town." 

Northcote's  brows  contracted. 

"Jacobs,  you  say?    What  Jacobs — William  Jacobs?" 

"No,  sir,"  the  boy  said,  quickly.  "It's  Bill  Jacobs. 
Up  on  the  mountain  road." 

"Precisely  so,"  the  judge  remarked,  pursing  his 
lips.     "Truly,  we  form  our  own  status." 

He  placed  the  packet  of  mail  on  the  window-ledge 
and  drew  off  his  gloves  slowly.  The  lines  between  his 
eyes  deepened  in  evident  interest. 

12 


Martin    Brook 


a 


I  think  I  know  the  man/'  he  mused.  Then,  in  a 
tone  of  command  :  "  Tell  me  the  truth.  What  did  you 
do  to  make  him  strike  you?" 

The  boy  shrank  back  ;  his  voice  dropped  to  a 
whisper. 

"I  called  him  a  whelp." 

"Ah!"  said  the  judge,  as  he  lifted  his  white  hand  to 
conceal  a  twitching  of  the  lips.  He  noticed  that  the 
boy  was  not  watching  him,  but  stood  with  eyes  turned 
to  the  ground.  "Are  you  used  to  such  an  interchange 
of  courtesies?" 

"He's  called  me  that  a  good  many  times,"  the  boy 
said,  twisting  his  cap  into  a  tight  ball. 

"Probably,  if  I  have  the  man  correctly  in  mind. 
And  this  was  said  before  he  struck  you?" 

"But  he'd  broke  Tag's  back,  sir,  and  that's  what 
made  me  say  it,"  the  boy  flashed  out,  lifting  his  head 
in  confidence  and  striking  his  cap  across  his  hand. 

The  judge  took  out  his  snuff-box — an  unusual  pro- 
ceeding for  the  street. 

"Now  we're  getting  at  the  case,"  he  said,  with  the 
instinct  of  the  cross-examiner.  "Tag?  A  dog,  you 
mean?"  He  inhaled  a  pinch  and  snapped  the  atoms 
from  his  fingers. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  he  was  the  only  friend  I  had.  Jacobs 
kicked  him  to  death." 

The  judge  saw  that  the  boy's  eyes  were  glistening 
through  tears.  "  But  you  haven't  improved  matters  by 
running  away,"  he  suggested,  dropping  the  box  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"It  couldn't  be  no  worse.  I'll  catch  it,  anyhow,  I 
guess." 

The  boy  was  shifting  from  foot  to  foot,  to  relieve  his 
pain.  This  sight,  as  a  proof  of  discomfort,  irritated 
the  judge  and  brought  his  mind  down  from  abstrac- 
tions in  the  law  to  realities  in  fact. 

13 


Martin    Brook 

"You  walked  here,  over  the  frozen  ground,  more 
than  twenty  miles?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

The  boy  stopped  shuffling  his  feet.  He  straightened 
in  pride. 

"I  didn't  mind  that,  sir.  I'm  used  to  it.  Anyhow, 
I  was  bound  I'd  come  and  see  you,  if  I  had  to  crawl  here 
every  step."  He  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  sound  of 
a  murmur  in  the  judge's  throat. 

The  great  man  did  not  try  to  conceal  the  fact  that  a 
boy  who  was  too  proud  to  admit  such  suffering — who 
could  pay  such  ingenuous  tribute  —  was  a  boy  worth 
talking  to  on  the  public  street. 

"How  old  are  you?"  the  judge  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
approval. 

"I'm  thirteen,  sir." 

"And  you're  bound  out  until  you  are  twenty-one. 
That  is  a  long  time ;  but  the  law  is  against  you  in  what 
you  have  done.     Jacobs  can  take  you  back — " 

"He'll  have  to  get  hold  of  me  first,"  the  boy  inter- 
rupted, fiercely.  "I  wish  I  was  twenty-one — I  wish  I 
was  a  man — " 

"Why?"     Again  that  snuff-box  was  in  sight. 

"  I'd  have  it  out  with  Jacobs,  law  or  no  law.  I  don't 
stand  no  show  at  all  now.  He  keeps  telling  me,  just  as 
you  do,  that  the  law  is  all  on  his  side.  You  are  a  judge 
— you  make  laws.     Ain't  there  no  law  made  for  boys?'' 

Northcote  studied  this  new  type  of  boy  through  half- 
closed  lids. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  boy?"  he  asked. 

"Martin  Brook,  sir." 

"Go  into  the  printing-office,"  the  judge  said.  "It 
is  warm  there,  at  least,  and  I  will  think  this  matter  over." 

Northcote  gathered  up  the  mail  from  the  window- 
ledge,  turned  as  if  to  speak  again,  reconsidered  that 
thought,  and  then  passed  up  the  steps  and  into  his 
sanctum,  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

14 


Chapter  II 

LEFT  alone  on  the  street,  Martin  waited  a  moment 
and  crept  up  the  steps,  along  the  outer  hall,  and  so, 
unopposed,  into  the  printing-office.  The  foreman 
looked  questioningly  at  the  shrinking  bundle  of  hu- 
manity, and  stopped  in  his  work  of  locking  up  a  form 
long  enough  to  say,  "  What  do  you  want?" 

"I'm  waiting  for  Judge  Northcote,  sir/'  Martin  said, 
taking  off  his  cap.  "He  told  me  I  might  come  in  and 
get  warm."  And  so,  obedient  to  authority  that  bore 
the  stamp  of  kindness,  Martin  patiently  awaited  a 
summons  from  the  judge. 

He  sat  low  down  by  the  big  box-stove,  his  bare  feet 
thrust  out  towards  the  comforting  warmth.  A  fire 
was  still  needed  in  the  office,  and  its  humming  was 
music  to  his  ears.     Everything  about  him  was  strange. 

His  feet  ached  and  burned,  but  he  did  not  dare  to 
move  or  speak.  He  glanced  timidly  around  the  room, 
with  a  feeling  of  awe,  as  he  sat,  open-eyed  and  open- 
mouthed,  watching  the  men  at  work  making  a  news- 
paper. He  thought  of  the  dog-eared  primer  and  the 
battered  Webster's  Speller  which  he  had  left  in  the  gar- 
ret at  home.  Home?  He  should  never  go  back  there 
any  more — he  hadn't  any  home. 

He  wondered  if  these  men  would  let  him  take  a  paper. 
He  was  sure  he  could  read  it  if  they  would  let  him  try. 
But  he  dared  not  ask  for  it.  He  felt  benumbed.  His 
thoughts  wandered  vaguely.  It  seemed  years  since 
he  had  started  away.     He  grew  faint  and  hungry — 

15 


Martin    Brook 

he  hadn't  thought  of  that  before,  or  of  where  he  was 
going  to  get  something  to  eat;  but  now  the  animal 
instinct  for  food  asserted  itself.  The  heat  from  the 
stove,  the  closeness  of  the  room,  the  smell  of  ink  and 
paper  stifled  him  after  his  hours  of  exertion  in  the  open 
air.  He  became  aware  that  the  room  was  slipping 
away  from  him — that  he  was  slipping  away  from  him- 
self. 

He  remembered  brokenly,  with  sudden  starts,  how 
he  had  spoken — with  some  one — long  ago — and  how 
much  courage  it  had  taken  to  do  it — to  speak  to  a  great 
man — somewhere — on  the  street.  Or  was  it  in  his 
mother's  room,  by  that  still  figure  under  the  white 
sheet?     He  had  tried  to  do  right — to  obey  her. 

A  sound  roared  in  his  ears.  It  lifted  him.  He  clam- 
bered up  on  its  trembling  steep,  out  of  darkness.  He 
heard  a  voice  calling  out : 

"  Where's  Judge  Northcote?" 

A  man  came  stamping  into  the  office,  splashed  with 
mud,  a  heavy  riding-whip  in  his  hand — Jacobs!  It 
was  Jacobs,  and  the  sight  of  him  recalled  the  boy  to 
life.  He  slid  from  his  seat  and  out  of  sight  behind  a 
rack  of  type-cases. 

"Where's  the  judge?"  Jacobs  cried.  "My  boy's 
run  awa3^,  and  I  want  to  advertise  him — or  do  suthin' 
to  get  the  law  after  him." 

"What  kind  of  a  looking  boy  is  he?"  the  foreman 
asked. 

"  Oh,  just  one  of  them  sneakin'  little  whelps.  If  ever 
I  lay  hands  on  him  again  he  won't  want  fur  markin's, 
I  tell  you — puttin'  me  to  all  this  trouble  and  ever3Tthing." 

The  man  cracked  his  whip  in  the  air. 

"I  don't  know  where  he's  gone,"  the  foreman  said, 
"  but  there  was  a  strange  boy  around  here  a  minute  ago 
— said  he  was  waiting  to  see  the  judge — a  barefooted, 
hungry-looking  chap,  in  a  ragged  blue  shirt — " 

16 


Martin   Brook 

"That's  the  one/'  Jacobs  assented,  nodding  his 
head;  but,  instantly  correcting  himself:  "I  mean,  he 
ain't  starved — he  eats  enough  for  a  dozen." 

At  that  moment  Judge  Northcote  came  into  the  room 
and  handed  a  bunch  of  copy  to  the  foreman.  The 
sight  of  him  gave  courage  to  the  lad.  He  darted  from 
his  hiding-place  and  ran  to  the  judge,  crying : 

"That's  him!  That's  Mr.  Jacobs!  Don't  let  him 
take  me!     Please  don't  let  him  take  me,  sir!" 

Northcote  put  a  hand  protectingly  on  Martin,  with  an 
involuntary  movement,  as  Jacobs  started  towards  him, 
with  whip  uplifted. 

"What's  that  you  say?"  he  cried,  trying  to  get  at 
Martin,  who  was  crouching  behind  the  judge. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  Northcote  said,  calmly,  facing 
the  blustering  man.     "Explain  what  this  means." 

"Why,  judge,  you  see,  it's  just  like  this;  my  boy's 
been  cuttin'  up,  and  I — "  Jacobs  paused,  letting  the 
whip  hang  limp. 

"Your  boy?     Are  you  his  father?"  Northcote  asked. 

"Well,  it's  all  the  same.     He's  mine  by  laiv." 

"And  you  treat  him  as  a  father  should?"  the  judge 
replied,  with  fine  sarcasm. 

"  That's  just  it ;  exactly  so,"  Jacobs  whined.  "  There 
ain't  no  kinder  master  in  the  county  than  I  be."  He 
moved  about  a  step  or  two.  "  I  dunno  how  he  comes  to 
be  here — but  it's  saved  me  a  heap  o'  trouble,  not  havin' 
to  look  fur  him." 

Martin  watched  the  judge's  face;  he  saw  no  sign  of 
sympathy. 

The  door  was  open,  and  he  crept  towards  it,  hoping 
for  a  chance  of  escape,  but  Jacobs  grabbed  him,  with 
an  oath. 

"No,  you  don't!"  he  cried,  flinging  Martin  back  in 
the  room.  "See  him,  judge,  trying  to  sneak  away 
like  a  varmint!" 

B  17 


Martin    Brook 

"Let  us  talk  this  over/'  the  judge  said,  taking  Mar- 
tin by  the  arm  and  leading  him  into  the  front  office. 

Jacobs  followed  them  sullenly. 

Through  the  window  could  be  seen  his  horse,  rest- 
lessly pawing  at  the  earth,  the  reins  thrown  loosely 
over  the  post. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  talk  over,  judge,"  Jacobs 
asserted.  "This  youngster  is  bound  out  to  me — and 
here's  the  paper."  He  thrust  out  a  soiled  document. 
"I  thought  I'd  be  obleeged  to  put  the  officers  on  his 
track,  or  advertise  him,  so  I  fetched  it  along." 

Judge  Northcote  took  the  paper  gingerly  and  filliped 
it  open.  It  was  the  usual  formal  renunciation  of  guar- 
dianship b}^  the  father  of  the  boy,  legally  transferring 
his  services  to  this  man  for  a  term  of  years.  It  was  an 
evidence  of  literal  bondage.  The  judge  simply  glanced 
at  it,  and  tossed  it  on  his  desk.  It  fell  open ;  and  there, 
on  the  grimy  page,  as  if  written  in  red,  stood  forth  the 
promise  of  kind  treatment  by  the  master. 

'"This  indenture  witnesseth,'  "  the  judge  read  slow- 
ly, as  he  stood  looking  at  the  document,  " '  that  the  mas- 
ter shall  be  humane — '  " 

"And  so  I  be,  judge;  so  I  be,"  Jacobs  urged. 

"You  have  never  treated  him  cruelly?  You  have 
never  beaten  or  abused  him?"  the  judge  said,  with  no 
attempt  to  conceal  his  disfavor  of  the  man. 

"Has  the  little  whelp  been  tellin'  you  that  sort  o' 
stuff?"  Jacobs  asked,  glaring  at  Martin,  who  stood 
trembling  by  the  side  of  the  judge.  "Why,  that  boy 
ain't  worth  his  keep.  I'm  obleeged  to  push  him  on, 
once  in  a  while." 

"His  keeping  doesn't  seem  to  have  cost  you  very 
much,"  the  judge  remarked,  looking  at  the  boy's  bare 
feet  and  ragged  clothes.  "  He's  worthless  to  you,  and 
yet  you  want  him  back." 

"Well,   you  see,   it's  just  like  this:  spring  work's 

18 


Martin    Brook 

comin'  on,  and  I've  had  him  on  my  hands  all  winter, 
lazin'  'round,  and — "     The  man  hesitated. 

"Yes?"  the  judge  prompted. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  he's  wtne ;  and  you're  lawyer  enough 
to  see  I've  got  my  case.  The  law,  judge,  the  law!" 
Jacobs  declared,  nodding  his  head  and  shaking  his 
whip: 

Mr.  Northcote  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  tapped  his 
snuff-box.  After  a  moment  of  silence,  he  handed  the 
paper  to  Jacobs. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "The  law  is  supreme. 
Besides,  I  have  but  the  word  of  a  child  against  the  writ- 
ten record  of  a  father's  faith  in  you." 

The  irksomeness  of  annoyance  outweighed  his  mo- 
mentary concern  in  a  nice  point  of  law.  He  turned 
towards  Martin:  "You  must  go  with  Mr.  Jacobs." 

"Go  with  me?  I  should  say  he  must!"  the  master 
said,  moving  threateningly  towards  Martin,  and  point- 
ing to  the  window.  "Get  out  o'  here!  Get  out  o'  here 
and  watch  that  horse.     He's  champin'  things  to  pieces." 

Martin  gave  one  despairing  glance  at  the  judge  — 
the  man  who  had  seemed  so  great — and  dragged  him- 
self on  his  swollen,  bleeding  feet  out  of  the  room,  across 
the  stone  steps  of  the  doorway,  and  over  the  cold  walk. 
Looking  back,  he  saw  the  judge  watching  him  through 
the  window.  Jacobs  was  gesticulating  and  pounding 
the  air  with  a  knotted  fist. 

The  boy  realized  that  he  had  tried  for  freedom  and 
had  failed.  He  knew  that  to  go  back  with  this  man 
meant  a  harder  life  than  he  had  ever  known  before.  It 
meant  a  terrible  whipping  at  first,  and — Tag  wasn't 
there  to  comfort  him.  The  impulse  to  escape  was  still 
on  him.  Why  not  make  one  more  break?  They  couldn't 
catch  him.  He  could  hide.  Why  not  run — anywhere — 
down  the  street  and  towards  the  open  fields? 

He  started  to  run,  but  the  horse,  a  small,  vicious 

19 


Martin    Brook 

brute,  laid  back  his  ears  as  the  boy  approached,  and 
jerked  suddenly  away  from  the  post,  breaking  the 
reins.  Martin  instinctively  sprang  to  catch  them. 
In  doing  so  he  struck  his  bruised  foot  on  a  stone  and 
fell  upon  one  knee.  The  horse  instantly  whirled  and 
reared,  with  open  mouth,  and  lunged  towards  Martin 
with  his  forward  feet,  but  missed  him,  and  reared  for 
another  plunge  just  as  Jacobs  dashed  across  the  walk 
and  seized  the  bridle,  wrenching  the  horse  to  its 
haunches. 

With  an  oath  the  man  turned  upon  Martin  and  brought 
the  butt  of  the  riding-whip  savagely  across  his  face. 

Judge  Northcote  had  followed  in  time  to  see  the  blow 
descend.  Hurrying  forward  he  picked  Martin  up  from 
where  he  lay  half  stunned  in  the  gutter  and  placed  him 
on  the  walk. 

"Stop!"  he  said,  confronting  Jacobs.  "This  boy 
shall  not  go  with  you." 

"Won't  go  with  me,  eh?"  roared  the  infuriated  man. 
"Well,  I  guess  he  will,  and  I'll  pound  him  ever3T  step 
of  the  way,  the  little  whelp!" 

Northcote  saw  that  a  crowd  was  gathering  in  the 
street.  Every  window  within  range  held  a  face.  It 
was  no  longer  merely  a  question  of  a  boy's  rights — it 
had  suddenly  become  an  issue  of  supremacy  between 
Judge  Northcote  and  a  vulgar  tyrant.  He  drew  the 
boy  nearer  to  him. 

"  I  say  he  shall  not  go  with  you.  I  place  him  under 
the  protection  of  the  law." 

"Yes,"  sneered  Jacobs,  "and  didn't  ye  say  a  minute 
ago  I  had  the  law  on  nry  side?  A  pretty  judge  you  be, 
goin'  back  on  your  own  decisions."  He  faced  the 
crowd  and  laughed.  He  felt  the  need  of  a  defence. 
" He's  stealin'  my  boy  and  pretendin'  it's  law." 

"  This  boy  is  not  a  slave ;  he  is  an  apprentice.  You 
have  no  legal  right  to  beat  him,"  the  judge  replied. 

20 


Martin    Brook 

"That's  a  lie!"  Jacobs  declared. 
"It  is  the  law." 

"Law  or  no  law,  I'll  have  him!"  Jacobs  cried,  spring- 
ing forward.  But  the  horse,  maddened  by  the  excite- 
ment, darted  aside,  dragging  him  to  the  middle  of  the 
street.  His  attitude  was  ludicrous.  The  spectators 
burst  into  derisive  laughter  as  he  awkwardly  threw 
himself  into  the  saddle,  shook  his  whip  at  the  judge, 
and  yelled : 

"  I'll  show  ye  what's  the  law  afore  I'm  through  with 
you!" 

"At  your  convenience,"  the  judge  said,  smiling, 
with  lips  drawn  tight. 

Jacobs  curbed  the  horse  for  an  instant,  tried  to  speak, 
broke  into  an  oath,  and,  wheeling  about,  dashed  furious- 
ly down  the  street,  and  so  forever  out  of  Martin's  life. 

Judge  Northcote  attempted  no  explanation  to  the 
crowd.  He  set  Martin  on  the  doorstep,  went  into  his 
office  for  his  bell-crown  beaver  hat  and  cloak,  and  re- 
turned unruffled  to  the  street.  Distinguished  and  dig- 
nified as  he  always  was  in  his  immaculate  attire,  it  was 
with  more  than  customary  dignity  that  he  started  tow- 
ards Elmhurst,  leading  by  the  hand  the  limping,  ragged 
boy,  across  whose  tear-stained  face  lay  a  bloody  mark. 

On  reaching  home  he  sent  for  Mrs.  Wright  and  await- 
ed her  arrival  in  the  hallway. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  quietly,  "here  is  a  boy  who 
needs  some  attention." 

"Why,  George!"  Mrs.  Wright  exclaimed.  "Who 
is  he?  Where  did  }^ou  find  him?  What  is  the  matter 
with  his  face?" 

Northcote  wiped  his  gloved  hands  on  his  handker- 
chief, where  Martin's  fingers  had  left  a  stain.  "  Have 
you  some  clothing  in  the  —  the  house  —  that  can  be 
utilized?"  he  asked,  eying  the  boy  with  aesthetic  dis- 
approval. 

21 


Martin    Brook 

"The  poor  child!"  Mrs.  Wright  said,  going  to  Martin. 

"Have  you  something  he  can  wear,  my  dear?"  the 
judge  insisted.     "The  servants  may  have — " 

"Wear?"  she  repeated,  speculatively.  "I  guess  I 
can  find  some  clothes — "  She  paused.  Then  suddenly : 
"Why,  brother!  I  know  where  there  is  something  that 
will  just  fit  him!  He's  just  Jimmy's  size,  and  I — " 
She  turned  and  left  him,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 


Chapter  III 

As  Martin  stood  in  the  hall  at  Elmhurst,  scarcely- 
hearing  the  voices  of  the  great  people,  dazed  by  the 
blow  inflicted  by  Jacobs  and  the  still  more  bewildering 
walk  by  the  judge's  side,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
entered  another  world. 

He  passively  followed  Mrs.  Wright  into  the  servants' 
quarters,  where  he  was  given  over  to  the  care  of  the 
housekeeper.  The  commonest  of  Jimmy's  clothes 
seemed  to  him  the  most  beautiful  garments  he  had  ever 
seen.  They  were,  it  is  true,  the  plainest  of  the  jealously 
guarded  relics  in  that  chest  in  the  attic,  but  Mrs.  Wright 
had  yielded  them  up  with  no  slight  pang.  Still,  the 
olive-green  jacket,  with  full  sleeves;  the  trousers  that 
hung  straight  to  the  ankles  from  a  belt  at  the  waist; 
the  warm  white  stockings  and  the  low  shoes,  were  a 
marvel  to  Martin. 

In  such  a  garb,  and  seated  by  the  big  fireplace,  watch- 
ing the  orderly  workings  of  that  wonderful  scene,  where, 
he  thought,  there  was  more  food  in  sight  than  any  fam- 
ily could  eat  in  a  year,  he  often  caught  himself  starting 
in  expectation  of  reproof  at  his  idleness.  But  slowly 
his  heart  took  courage.  The  smiles  and  nods  of  the 
maids,  the  brusque  inquiries  of  the  cook — his  first  les- 
sons in  human  sympathy — awoke  his  mind  to  unfa- 
miliar sensations. 

Before  long,  however,  he  began  to  taste  the  bitter  in 
his  too-abundant  cup  of  comfort.  His  clothes  burdened 
him;  his  shoes  grew  unbearable > on  his  blistered  feet. 

23 


Martin    Brook 

The  magnificence  of  his  surroundings,  the  quiet  dignity 
of  the  household,  the  amplitude  of  the  place,  oppressed 
him.  He  longed  for  the  freedom  of  the  accustomed 
— the  privilege  of  occupation.  He  felt  that  he  ought 
to  be  doing  something ;  and  after  several  vain  attempts 
to  summon  his  voice,  he  at  last  crept  up  to  the  cook,  the 
person  who  impressed  him  most,  and  whispered,  as 
he  pointed  to  the  stable  -  boy  who  was  going  to  the 
barn: 

"Please,  ma'am,  may  I  go  with  this  young  gentle- 
man ?" 

"Young  gentleman!  Well,  well,  and  what  shall  we 
have  next!"  the  cook  said,  roaring  with  laughter,  while 
the  yokel  blushed  and  guffawed. 

Martin  shrank  back,  the  tears  starting  to  his  eyes. 
Blows  and  curses  could  not  feaze  him,  but  ridicule  hurt 
him  like  the  sting  of  a  wasp. 

"Go  long  with  you,  youngster/'  the  cook  said,  "and 
don't  be  namin'  folks  out  of  their  station." 

She  flung  a  laugh  at  the  embarrassed  boy  that  rankled 
in  his  mind  as  he  walked  slowly  towards  the  barns ;  but 
once  among  the  horses  he  felt  himself  upon  familiar 
ground  and  took  on  courage. 

He  avoided  the  boy  who  had,  unintentionally,  been 
the  means  of  his  first  disgrace;  and,  finding  a  spot  in 
the  great  mow  where  he  could  be  alone,  drew  off  those 
tormenting  shoes  and  threw  himself  down  on  the  hay. 
Oh,  the  luxury  of  it!  This  must  be  what  Mrs.  Jacobs 
had  meant  when  she  told  him  about  the  rich  folks  and 
their  comforts  in  life. . 

Martin  had  always  been  a  dreamer  of  day-dreams — 
a  believer  in  things  unseen.  To  him  the  woods  were 
full  of  invisible  companions,  and  there  were  sounds  in 
the  winds  that  caused  him  to  listen  for  voices.  No  one 
but  Tag  had  known  of  this,  but  he  had  understood. 
Their  dreams  were  a  part  of  their  real  life,  not  terrif ying, 

24 


Martin    Brook 

but  helpful;  and  his  love  for  Tag  had  made  him  a 
friend  to  all  the  race  of  dogs. 

Here,  safe  in  the  barn,  away  from  the  dread  of  a  cruel 
master,  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  dead  mother  who 
seemed  always  near  him.  Oh,  if  she  could  see  him 
now,  how  happy  she  would  be !  She  was  not  dead  to  him, 
for  he  remembered  her  as  she  looked,  the  last  time  he 
saw  her,  lying  so  still  under  the  white  sheet  in  the  spare 
bedroom ;  and  he  always  prayed  to  her  at  night,  before 
he  went  to  sleep.  She  had  told  him  that,  some  day, 
the  Good  Father  would  give  them  all  a  home.  He  won- 
dered what  she  meant,  for  his  father  hadn't  done  it; 
perhaps  his  father  wasn't  good ;  but  now  Judge  North- 
cote  had.  And  here  he  was,  rich,  happy,  comfort- 
able— all  but  the  sore  spot  on  his  cheek,  and  his  lame 
feet;  but  he'd  get  over  that  in  a  little  while. 

And,  lying  here  on  the  sweet  hay,  he  was  suddenly 
aroused  by  the  barking  of  dogs.  He  sprang  up.  A 
man  was  looking  at  him  from  the  wide  doorway;  the 
figure  seemed  enormous  against  the  background  of  the 
western  sky.  Two  dogs,  with  hair  bristling  along  their 
backs,  were  growling  at  him,  as  he  slipped  down  from 
the  mow  to  the  floor. 

"Well,  I  swan!"  the  man  said.  "If  you  didn't  give 
me  a  scare.  Thought  you  was  a  ghost  in  them  close. 
Get  out,  Zeus!  Get  out,  Juno!  Guess  I  don't  need 
none  o'  your  help  here." 

The  man  went  up  to  Martin  and  turned  him  round, 
examining  him  at  every  point. 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  blow  from?  Where 'd  you 
git  them  close?" 

"  Judge  Northcote  fetched  me,  sir.  The  lady  give  me 
these  things,"  Martin  answered. 

"She  did,  eh?"  the  man  said,  sharply,  holding  the 
boy  at  arm's-length.  "  Give  you  little  Jimmy's  things. 
That's  a  likely  story." 

25 


Martin    Brook 

"It's  true,  sir/'  Martin  declared,  putting  up  an  arm 
to  shield  him  from  the  expected  blow.  But  the  blow 
did  not  fall.  He  looked  up  and  recognized  Eph  Larrabee. 
With  a  cry  of  joy,  he  said,  "Why,  it's  Mr.  Larrabee! 
I've  come  to  help  you,  Mr.  Larrabee/' 

Eph  threw  back  his  head  with  a  snort  of  contempt. 
"Help  me?" 

"Yes,"  Martin  said,  drawing  away  and  eying  him 
suspiciously. 

The  dogs  came  closer  and  sniffed  at  him. 

"Where'd  ye  git  that  black  eye? — been  fightin'?'' 
Eph  inquired. 

"No,  sir,"  Martin  said,  turning  his  face  from  Eph 
and  scraping  his  foot  among  the  chaff  on  the  floor. 
"Jacobs  hit — "  Then,  in  loyalty  to  his  rescuer,  "  That 
is,  he  hit  me  'fore  Judge  Northcote  could  stop  him." 

"  Oh,"  said  Eph,  rubbing  his  chin. 

"Yes,  sir.  Judge  Northcote  made  him  stop  pretty 
quick,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"  He  did,  eh?  And  so  you've  come  to  help  me?"  Eph 
went  on.  "  Well,  I  guess  it  won't  be  long  'fore  you  have 
my  place,  if  that's  so.  Ye  look  as  if  ye  had  faculty. 
Who  be  ye,  anyway?" 

"  I'm  Martin  Brook,  sir.  I  come  from  Mr.  Jacobs,  the 
man  you  bought  the  potatoes  of  last  fall.  Don't  you 
remember?" 

"Well,  I'm  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  but 
I  don't  seem  to  have  much  of  a  distinct  rec'lection  of 
havin'  had  the  honor  o'  meetin'  you  before.  What  ye 
good  fur?" 

"Anything  you  want  me  to  do.  Shall  I  put  up  the 
team?"  he  asked,  running  to  the  horses  in  the  barn-yard. 
The  lines  lay  on  the  ground,  where  Eph  had  flung  them. 

The  dogs  looked  at  each  other,  and,  with  a  bark  of 
approval,  started  after  the  boy,  wagging  their  tails. 

"Here,  what  ye  'bout?"  Eph  cried,  as  Martin  gath- 

26 


Martin    Brook 

ered  up  the  lines  to  put  them  in  shape.  "  Ain't  goin' 
to  leave  that  wagon  in  the  track,  be  ye  ?  Back  her 
under  the  shed/'  he  ordered,  with  good-natured  con- 
tempt. 

Martin  tossed  the  lines  over  the  horses'  backs,  and 
took  the  team  by  the  bits.  He  cramped  the  wagon 
about  and  backed  it  under  cover,  while  Zeus  and  Juno 
capered  about  him.  He  tied  up  the  lines,  unhooked 
the  outer  traces,  and  crawled  fearlessly  in  behind  the 
horses  to  unfasten  the  inside  ones.  He  unbuckled 
the  neck-yoke,  and  let  the  pole  fall  to  the  ground.  He 
gave  the  horses  a  slap  on  their  broad  flanks  as  they 
started  for  the  watering- tub,  and  ran  on  ahead. 

"Got  some  nice  dogs,  hain't  you?"  he  called  out,  as 
he  struggled  with  the  heavy  well-sweep. 

Eph  looked  on  in  open-mouthed  astonishment. 

"Which  stall,  sir?"  Martin  asked,  when  the  horses 
turned  of  their  own  accord  to  the  barn. 

"  Well,"  drawled  Eph,  "  sence  they're  bein'  handled  by 
comp'ny,  guess  they'd  better  go  in  the  double  one.  I 
never  did  like  to  cramp  a  double  team  in  a  single  stall. 
Don't  let  'em  step  on  ye.  Couldn't  find  ye  in  a  week, 
ef  they  should  git  ye  under  one  o'  them  hoofs." 

Martin  hurried  after  them,  as  the  team  went  clanking 
into  the  barn.  He  pushed  in  front  of  them,  slipped  off 
their  headstalls,  and  tugged  at  the  big  collars,  the 
horses  trying  their  best  to  help  him,  but  only  lifting 
him  off  his  feet. , 

"Well,  I  guess  you'll  do,  youngster,"  Eph  laughed, 
coming  to  his  rescue.  "  All  you  need  is  a  little  more 
height  and  weight.  You  got  grit  'nough  already." 
He  forced  the  collars  off  and  hung  the  harness  on  their 
accustomed  pegs. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  more,  sir?" 

"  I  guess  I'll  do  the  rest  of  it,  seein'  you're  so  willin'. 
I  knowed  a  feller  once  that  broke  his  back  by  bein'  too 

27 


Martin    Brook 

willin'.  Now,  run  up  to  the  house  and  tell  the  wimmin 
folks  you're  beginnin'  to  get  hungry." 

"I'm  not  hungry/'  Martin  said,  resenting  the  pat- 
ronizing tone. 

"Oh,  you  will  be  when  you  grow  older;  boys  mostly 
is.  I  knowed  a  boy  once  dug  out  so  thin  that  he  could 
hold  almost  any  amount.  He  was  a  relative  to  me  on 
his  mother's  side,"  Eph  explained,  as  he  went  whistling 
about,  feeding  the  horses. 

Martin  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  him  for  some 
time.     At  last  he  said,  with  a  puzzled  look : 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. " 

"By  what,  fer  instance?" 

"  You  don't  seem  mad,  but  you  talk  kind  of  queer." 

Eph  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  "  Yes,  I  catched  that 
along  with  the  measles." 

The  two  dogs  came  bounding  into  the  barn  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  and  rushed  about.  In  their  plunging 
over  the  floor,  they  came  upon  Martin's  shoes  and  stock- 
ings. Zeus  picked  up  a  shoe,  and  Juno  a  stocking, 
worrying  them  like  rats.  Martin  ran  towards  the  dogs, 
but  they  eluded  him  and  started  towards  the  house, 
bearing  their  trophies. 

Martin  pursued,  commanding  them  to  stop.  The 
faster  he  ran,  the  swifter  they  fled,  shaking  their  heads 
and  growling  joyfully. 

The3r  reached  the  corner  of  the  house  and  turned  into 
the  front  path,  but  stopped  suddenly,  letting  the  shoe 
and  stocking  fall.  Martin  was  almost  upon  them, 
when,  with  a  bark  of  recognition,  the}^  leaped  forward 
towards  a  little  girl  who  stood  by  the  portico-steps — a 
little  girl  in  a  white  frock,  with  brown  hair  hanging 
down  her  back,  and  a  beautiful  blue  ribbon  about  her. 
He  heard  the  child  utter  a  cry  of  alarm  and  clutch  what 
seemed  to  be  a  huge  doll  tightly  in  her  arms. 

Then  he  heard  an  explosive  hiss,  and  saw  an  ani- 

2& 


Martin    Brook 

mated  bunch  of  yellow  fur  shoot  from  the  girl's  arms, 
flash  across  the  grass,  and  streak  up  the  nearest  tree. 

He  saw  the  dogs  dash  to  the  tree,  and,  from  the  se- 
curity of  a  branch,  he  saw  a  big  yellow  cat  look  down 
and  spit  disdainfully  at  them. 

"Charge!"  cried  Martin,  running  up.  The  dogs 
dropped  in  their  tracks.  "Go  to  the  barn,"  he  ordered. 
With  penitent  eyes  and  drooping  tails,  Zeus  and  Juno 
slowly  walked  away. 

"They  didn't  mean  anything,"  said  Martin,  defen- 
sively.    "They  were  glad  to  see  you." 

"Yellow  Fellow  wasn't  glad  to  see  them,  I  guess," 
the  girl  said,  her  lip  trembling.  "Come,  kitty,  kitty, 
kitty!"  she  called,  going  to  the  tree,  still  hugging  the 
little  white  dress  the  cat  had  worn. 

"What's  that?"  Martin  asked,  laughing. 
"Why,  that's  Yellow  Fellow's  best  dress.     We  were 
taking  the  air,  and  he's  just  as  good  as  anything  when 
those  horrid  dogs  let  him  alone." 

"Never  mind,"  Martin  pleaded.  "He'll  come  down, 
and  you  can  put  it  on  him  again." 

"  He  won't  come  down  all  night,"  she  said. 
"I'll   get   him   for   you.     Come,   kitty!"     But  kitty 
wrapped  his  long  tail  snugly  around  him  and  settled 
for  an  indefinite  stay. 

Forgetful  of  his  fine  clothes,  Martin  climbed  the  tree- 
He  reached  the  cat,  and  swung  it  over  his  shoulder; 
but,  as  he  neared  the  ground,  Yellow  Fellow  gave  a  fly- 
ing leap  and  scurried  into  the  house. 

"  Oh,"  said  Martin,  ruefully.     "  That's  too  bad. " 
"Never  mind.     I  don't  care,  now  that  he's  safe,"  the 
girl  replied.     " I  can  dress  him  some  other  day." 

"Do  you  live  here?"  Martin  asked,  shyly,  with  a  sud- 
den sense  of  bashf ulness  now  that  there  was  no  longer 
the  need  of  action. 

"No,  but  I  come  here  'most  every  da}',"  she  said, 

29 


Martin    Brook 

proudly.  Then,  noticing  the  mark  of  the  whip  on  his 
cheek,  she  said,  eagerly:  "Why,  you've  hurt  your 
face." 

"No,"  he  said,  while  the  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks. 
"That's  nothing.  I  did  that — I  mean,  it  was  done  a 
good  while  ago." 

"Did  you  fall  out  of  a  tree?"  she  asked. 

"I  fell  down." 

"  Papa  won't  let  me  climb  trees  any  more.  Does  3Tour 
papa  live  here — in  Sandy  Hill?" 

"No." 

"Mine  does.  He  likes  to  have  me  come  here,  to  see 
Mrs.  Wright.  She's  almost  as  good  as  my  mamma 
was." 

Martin  turned  and  looked  suddenly  into  her  eyes. 
"Is  your  mother  dead,  too?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  softly.  "Mamma  died  last  sum- 
mer." 

"My  mother  died  more  than  five  years  ago." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm.     "What's  your  name?" 

"Martin  Brook,"  he  said. 

"Mine  is  Mary  Whittaker." 

Just  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Wright  appeared  on  the 
porch.  She  noticed  the  boy's  bare  feet,  and  the  soiled 
appearance  of  his  clothes. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  "what  are  you  doing  there  with 
that  boy?" 

Mary  ran  up  the  steps  and  into  the  front  door,  ex- 
plaining as  she  went;  but  Martin  recovered  his  shoes 
and  stockings,  and  slowly  returned  to  the  servants' 
quarters. 

30 


Chapter  IV 

WITH  the  aid  of  Time,  Martin  won  the  hearts  of  his 
associates  below  stairs,  here  at  Elmhurst. 

He  did  not  realize  that  he  was  doing  this,  in  his  will- 
ing helpfulness.  He  made  no  effort  to  gain  their  favor. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  do  so  He  only  went  about 
his  new  work  cheerfully,  as  he  grew  accustomed  to  the 
habits  of  the  household,  and  by  the  unconscious  exercise 
of  gratitude  was  slowly  lifted  to  a  higher  plane,  still  on 
the  level  of  service. 

His  being  at  Elmhurst  was  the  merest  accident  in 
the  life  of  the  family.  Judge  Northcote  had  forgotten 
the  boy  as  easily  as  he  had  defeated  Jacobs.  But  Mrs. 
Wright  continued  to  watch  him  with  an  interest  born 
of  the  coincidence  of  his  coming  here  in  need  of  just 
such  help  as  could  be  rendered  in  little  Jimmy's  name 
on  little  Jimmy's  birthday.  This  appealed  to  her  as 
nothing  else  had  ever  done.  The  mother-heart,  throb- 
bing with  an  emotion  which,  she  believed,  could  never 
be  expressed  in  Judge  Northcote's  presence  without 
causing  a  line  or  two  to  deepen  in  his  face,  found  in 
this  act  of  charity  a  quiet  joy.  Not  that  Martin  could 
ever  take  the  place  of  her  own  boy  in  her  life— that 
thought  never  entered  her  mind.  But  he  was  a  visible 
evidence,  in  his  frank  show  of  obligation,  of  the  good 
that  little  Jimmy  would  rejoice  to  do  were  he  still  with 
her. 

Besides,  she  did  admit  a  pleasure  in  watching  the 
spontaneous  growth  of  independence  in  the  child.     He 

31 


Martin    Brook 

was  so  amenable  to  suggestion,  so  alert,  so  refined, 
so  adaptable  to  the  new  conditions,  so  happ3T  in  the 
kindly  atmosphere,  that  Mrs.  Wright  could  not  resist 
the  inclination  to  take  him  from  among  the  rougher 
out-door  servants,  and  bring  him  into  closer  relations 
with  herself. 

There  was  ver\T  little  work  that  he  could  do;  and 
he  was  left  with  hours  of  idleness,  if  he  chose  to  be  idle. 
But  he  was  not  indolent ;  he  craved  activity-  and  sought 
emplo37ment.  He  often  annoyed  her  with  the  plea: 
"Isn't  there  something  I  can  do?"  So,  to  keep  him 
occupied,  Mrs.  Wright  used  to  put  a  book  into  his  hands 
— for  Elmhurst  was  a  place  of  books — and  tell  him  to 
improve  his  mind.  Frequently  she  was  surprised  at 
his  choice  of  books,  as  she  came  upon  him  in  some  ob- 
scure corner,  with  a  volume  on  his  knees,  absorbed  in 
a  subject  she  thought  must  be  far  be^-ond  his  compre- 
hension. 

The  servants  also  noticed  this  studious  habit  and 
laughed  at  him,  while  secretl}7  approving  of  it.  Noth- 
ing was  too  good  to  be  expected  of  a  servant  at  Elm- 
hurst. The  dignit\T  of  the  family  was  strenuously 
maintained  below  stairs,  and  every  servant  was  proud 
to  be  of  the  house  of  Northcote.  Here,  by  the  kitchen 
fire,  the  boy  listened  to  stories  of  the  family's  greatness 
with  silent  awe,  and  here  he  grew  to  regard  the  judge 
with  a  feeling  he  could  not  put  into  words — the  ad- 
miration of  3routh  and  ignorance  for  age  and  culture 
and  courtly  manners. 

His  quickened  intelligence  absorbed  the  teachings  of 
the  lower  grade  in  this  primary  school  of  society,  so 
that,  before  he  had  been  three  months  at  Elmhurst,  he 
understood  that  Mrs.  Wright  was  the  only  sister — the 
only  living  relative  —  of  his  benefactor;  that  she  had 
married  a  poor  man  when  very  young,  against  her 
parents'  wishes,  and  because  of  this  had  been  cut  out  of 

32 


Martin    Brook 

her  father's  will ;  that  Mr.  Wright  was  dead,  that  her 
brother  had  opened  the  great  house,  which  was  closed 
for  some  time  after  the  death  of  his  father,  Mr.  Gerry 
Northcote,  while  Mr.  George  was  travelling  in  Europe, 
and  had  given  his  sister  a  home;  and  that  -her  son, 
"little  Jimmy/'  had  lived  to  be  fourteen  and  was  dead. 

There  were  stories,  too,  of  the  former  magnificence 
of  Elmhurst,  when  Mr.  Gerry  Northcote  was  alive. 
His  grand  entertainments  were  the  wonder  of  the  times. 
But  of  late,  since  Mr.  George's  return,  the  older  ser- 
vants shook  their  heads  in  regret  at  the  absence  of 
guests.  Notable  men  were  sometimes  here,  to  be  sure, 
and  then  the  rare  wines  were  brought  out ;  but  usu- 
ally there  was  no  one  except  the  Rev.  Mr.  Coulter, 
rector  of  St.  John's,  or  Dr.  Whittaker,  the  family  phy- 
sician, or  a  few  friends  from  the  village,  while  there 
might  be  the  noblest  in  the  land,  if  the  judge  would 
but  say  the  word. 

And  the  mansion,  the  housekeeper  proudly  declared, 
had  been  designed  for  entertainments,  with  its  wide 
hallway  and  grand  staircase  in  the  centre  of  the' main 
house;  its  parlors  and  drawing-rooms;  its  oak  ban- 
quet-hall, and  its  transverse  corridors  on  both  floors, 
extending  through  the  wings,  and  lighted  by  large 
windows  at  either  end.  But  the  rooms  of  state  were  sel- 
dom used,  because  the  judge  was  not  fond  of  society. 
The  master  occupied  only  the  upper  floor  of  the  east 
wing,  and  Mrs.  Wright  the  corresponding  suite  on  the 
west. 

Martin  learned  another  fact  that  impressed  him 
strongly.  He  was  made  to  know  that  nothing  must 
disturb  the  quiet  of  the  judge's  rooms.  Mr.  Northcote 
was  generous,  but  severe.  His  library  was  especially 
regarded  with  respect.  He  was  told  that  the  care  of  it 
was  always  under  the  personal  direction  of  Mrs.  Wright, 
for  fear  the  judge's  order  of  arrangement  might  other- 
C  33 


Martin    Brook 

wise  be  disturbed.  The  servants  affirmed  that  he  could 
tell  if  so  much  as  a  single  book  had  been  moved  from 
the  spot  in  his  library  where  he  had  laid  it. 

Thus  the  boy  became  imbued  with  the  truth  that, 
in  the  printing-office,  as  at  his  home,  the  judge's  will 
was  absolute,  and  the  Sentinel,  as  a  vehicle  of  ideas — 
George  Northcote's  ideas  —  devoted  to  his  essays  and 
disquisitions  on  the  needs  of  the  hour,  was  included  in 
the  objects  of  veneration  by  the  retinue  at  Elmhurst. 

As  if  in  furtherance  of  this  concept,  it  transpired, 
some  months  after  Martin's  arrival,  that  the  judge, 
who  had  been  absorbed  for  several  days  in  the  prepa- 
ration of  an  essay  on  the  "Potentiality  of  C3Tnicism," 
had  read  his  thesis  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Coulter,  and  that 
learned  gentleman  had  questioned  the  correctness  of  a 
quotation  from  "Richard  III."  The  judge  was  pos- 
itive of  his  own  accuracy.  He  had,  as  usual,  left  the 
volume  on  the  table  in  his  library.  A  glance  would 
suffice  to  confuse  the  rector.  He  started  home,  the 
observed  of  all,  as  he  moved  along  the  street,  in  his  high 
beaver,  with  a  wide,  turned-up  brim ;  his  long  swallow- 
tail blue  coat,  with  a  velvet  collar  that  rolled  away  to 
reveal  a  light  waistcoat  and  ruffled  shirt-front;  and 
wide  light  trousers  that  flapped  above  the  ankle  and 
showed  the  wrinkles  in  the  pliable  tops  of  his  polished 
boots. 

But  it  chanced  that  Mrs.  Wright,  more  intent  on 
domestic  comfort  than  on  scholastic  studies,  had  taken 
advantage  of  her  brother's  absence  from  the  house  to 
throw  open  his  rooms  to  the  cool  river  breeze.  She 
had  directed  Martin  how  to  help  in  the  work.  He  had 
brought  great  masses  of  roses  for  the  vases  in  the 
judge's  rooms,  and  Mrs.  Wright,  with  the  aid  of  Mary 
Whittaker,  had  done  those  trifles  which  a  woman's 
loving  heart  alone  could  suggest  to  make  the  place  de- 
lightful.    Martin  was  thrilled  with  the  honor  of  his 

34  ' 


Martin    Brook 

duties  and  the  gracious  gentleness  of  his  mistress. 
She  had  never  seemed  so  kind  to  him.  And  when, 
having  completed  the  task,  and  Mrs.  Wright  had  re- 
tired, with  Mary,  to  her  own  apartments,  meanwhile 
bidding  Martin  to  go  down-stairs,  he  hesitated,  and 
then  crept  softly  back  once  more  to  the  open  doorway. 
I  le  stepped  inside  the  room.  It  was  his  first  venture 
alone  into  the  awesome  place  he  had  heard  so  much 
about. 

In  the  centre  of  the  library  was  the  massive  oak  table 
the  housekeeper  had  told  him  of— the  one  which  the 
master  had  brought  from  Holland.  The  carvings 
puzzled  him.     He  studied  them  breathlessly. 

He  felt  as  he  did  in  Mr.  Coulter's  church.  The  mys- 
terious hush  of  the  unknown  was  about  him.  He 
listened  for  the  voices  he  used  to  hear  in  the  woods. 
His  eyes  slowly  took  in  the  scene.  The  fireplace, 
with  its  iron  dragons,  gaped  at  him,  as  if  to  protect  the 
sanctuary  from  such  invasion.  The  big  bunches  of 
roses,  in  the  tall  vases  on  the  floor,  filled  the  air  with 
fragrance.  The  dark  wood  of  the  casings  and  doors; 
the  mellow  sunlight  streaming  through  the  small- 
paned  windows  of  colored  glass ;  the  rich  draperies ;  the 
paintings  and  bits  of  tapestry;  the  queer-shaped  pis- 
tols and  clusters  of  swords;  the  hundred  objects  on 
every  side,  appealed  to  the  boy's  imagination  in  a  most 
bewildering  way.  They  impressed  him  with  a  double 
weight:  their  own  importance  and  his  disobedience. 

Step  by  step  he  moved  along,  gaining  courage  at 
each  new  discovery.  The  books,  shut  up  in  their  cases, 
charmed  him  most  of  all.  The  delicious  odor  of  the 
place,  that  mingled  with  the  perfume  of  the  roses,  yet 
was  distinct,  and  the  subduing  sense  of  ease,  entranced 
him.  He  drew  a  long,  trembling  breath.  It  wras  in- 
toxication.    He  lost  the  consciousness  of  self. 

A  book  lay  open  on  the  table.     At  first  Martin  read 

35 


Martin    Brook 

and  reread  the  words  in  sight.  Then  he  turned  a  page. 
The  book  had  pictures!  He  carried  it  to  the  window, 
in  the  farthest  corner,  where  the  shelving  formed  a 
niche,  and  sat  down  on  the  broad  window-ledge,  with 
the  volume  on  his  knees  behind  the  curtains. 

He  was  having  his  first  sight  of  Shakespeare. 

At  this  moment  the  judge  entered  the  library,  dig- 
nified even  in  his  irritation- at  Mr.  Coulter,  going  con- 
fidently to  the  table  where  his  rare  edition  of  the  poet 
should  be  found.  To  his  amazement,  it  was  not  there. 
He  glanced  angrily  about,  and  then,  crossing  the 
room,  pulled  the  bell-cord  that  hung  near  the  mantel, 
summoning  a  servant. 

"Is  3rour  mistress  in  her  apartments ?"  he  demanded. 

"She  is,  sir." 

"Inform  Mrs.  Wright  that  I  desire  to  speak  with 
her." 

The  maid  ran  along  the  corridor,  and  summoned 
Mrs.  Wright,  who  responded  quickly,  as  she  alwa}Ts 
did  to  the  judge's  imperious  requests. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  brother?"  she  asked,  as  she 
straightened  a  stra3Ting  ribbon  in  her  lace  cap  and 
smoothed  the  front  of  her  pearl-colored  gown. 

"Margaret,"  the  judge  said,  deliberate^,  "I  left  my 
volume  of  Shakespeare  here,  in  its  accustomed  place. 
It  is  gone.     Some  one  has  disobeyed  my  orders." 

"Why,  brother,"  she  said,  "I  am  sure  no  one  has 
been  here  since  I — " 

"And  I  am  equally  positive,  Margaret,  that  some 
intruder  has  been  here,"  Judge  Northcote  interrupted. 

A  slight  noise  attracted  his  attention.  He  looked  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound.  There  was  a  rustling  among 
the  curtanis.  A  little  face  peered  out  for  a  moment, 
and  was  withdrawn. 

An  instant  later  Martin  came  forward,  holding  the 
book  in  both  hands.     His  face  was  deathlv  white.     He 

36 


Martin    Brook 

waited  to  gather  courage,  and  walked  bravely  up  to  the 
judge.  One  glance  at  the  master,  and  the  boy's  head 
drooped  as  it  did  that  memorable  day  in  the  office. 

The  judge  straightened  himself,  thrust  a  hand  be- 
tween the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat,  and  looked  at  the 
boy  with  a  frown,  changing  into  a  sarcastic  smile. 
Turning  to  his  sister,  he  said  : 

"Ah!  we  are  entertaining  a  scholar  unawares!  You 
see,  I  am  rarely  mistaken." 

"Oh,  Martin!"  cried  Mrs.  Wright;  "how  dare  you? 
How  could  you?" 

Martin  hugged  the  big  book  squarely  before  him, 
like  a  defensive  shield.     His  lips   were  tightly  com- 
pressed as  the  judge  took  the  book  from  his  arms. 
w  "I   trust,"   the  judge   said,   with   smiling   sarcasm, 
'you  find  nothing  to  criticise  in  our  poet." 

Martin's  chin  trembled.  A  tear  slowly  traced  a  line 
down  his  pale  cheek. 

"Brother,"  Mrs.  Wright  pleaded,  "please  don't 
blame  him.  It  was  my  fault.  I  left  the  door  open. 
The  day  has  been  so  warm,  you  know — " 
The  judge  sat  down,  his  back  towards  her. 
Martin  tiptoed  out  of  the  library ;  but  once  more  in 
the  corridor,  feeling  the  freedom  of  escape,  fled  swiftly 
to  his  room. 

Mrs.  Wright  paused  at  the  door  to  say,  "I  am  sorry 
you  are  disturbed,  brother,"  and  went  slowly  down- 
stairs. 

Safe  in  his  little  room,  Martin  flung  himself,  sobbing, 
on  his  bed,  and  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow. 

It  was  all  over!  He  had  lost  everything!  He  knew 
that  he  ought  not  to  have  gone  in  there  alone.  They 
had  told  him  so.  But  it  was  such  a  temptation.  All 
those  rows  of  books,  the  beauty  of  the  room,  the  quiet. 
Oh,  it  was  wonderful,  wonderful !  But  it  was  all  over 
now.     Judge  Northcote  hated  him;  and  Mrs.  Wright 

37 


Martin    Brook 

had  never  scolded  him  before.  It  wasn't  what  she  said 
— no,  it  wasn't  that ;  but  something !  It  was  what  the 
judge  said,  and  the  way  he  had  said  it — the  way  the 
judge  had  looked.  It  would  have  been  easier  if  they 
had  struck  him ;  he  could  have  stood  a  blow.  But — 
but  —  he  hadn't  meant  to  do  wrong.  No  —  no  ;  he 
hadn't  meant  to  do  any  wrong. 

Mrs.  Wright  went  to  Martin's  room.  He  didn't  hear 
her  enter.     She  laid  her  hand  on  his  head  and  he  sprang 

UP- 

"Yes,  I'll  go!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  mean  to  do  it; 
but  I'll  go.     I  won't  wait  to  have  him  send  me  away." 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  drew  the 
little  fellow  to  her,  gently  stroking  his  head,  making 
no  attempt  to  calm  him  with  words.  She  let  him  sob 
his  grief  out  in  her  arms.  When  he  grew  quieter,  she 
said: 

"You  know,  Martin,  those  are  the  judge's  books, 
not  the  ones  I  permitted  you  to  read.  I  told  you  he 
was  very  particular,  and  to  such  a  man  books  are  very 
precious.  Why  did  you  go  into  the  librae  after  I  had 
told  3tou  to  go  down-stairs?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am.  I  ought  to  have  minded 
you.  But  the  door  was  open,  and  I  thought  it  wouldn't 
do  any  harm  just  to  look  in.  I  never  saw  such  a  place 
before."  His  eyes,  red  and  swollen,  but  wide  with 
eagerness,  were  turned  fearlessly  towards  hers  now. 
"I  went  in,  and  I  saw  that  book,  and  I  wondered  if  I 
could  read  the  words  he  reads.  And  the  next  thing  I 
knew,  1  heard  him  coming.  I  was  behind  the  curtains 
— and  you  know — "     He  broke  down  with  a  sob. 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  do  it  again,  if  the  judge 
will  forgive  you  this  time?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  won't  forgive  me.  I  don't  deserve 
it.     I  ain't  fit  to  be  here,"  Martin  burst  forth. 

"  Perhaps  the  judge  will  not  think  quite  so  harshly 

38 


Martin    Brook 

of  you.  At  any  rate,  before  you  go  away,  Martin,  I 
wish  you  would  do  something  for  me.     Would  you — " 

"I'll  do  anything  for  you — anything  I  can/'  he  de- 
clared. 

"Well,  now,  get  the  hammer  and  some  tacks,  and 
come  out  with  me.  You  know  the  rose-bush  under  the 
library  window — the  one  that  was  my  little  boy's?  It 
needs  training  once  more,  and  I  want  you  to  do  it,  be- 
cause you  are  so  light  and  spry.  Eph  is  so  big,  and 
you  can  climb  the  ladder  easier  than  he  can." 

Martin  was  on  his  feet  before  she  had  ceased  speak- 
ing. He  ran  to  the  tool-shed,  found  the  ladder  and  the 
tools,  and  carried  them,  stumbling  under  their  weight, 
to  the  east  wing. 

Mrs.  Wright  followed,  smiling  at  his  earnestness. 
She  noticed,  as  they  reached  the  spot,  that  the  judge's 
windows  were  still  open. 

Judge  Northcote,  sitting  where  Mrs.  Wright  had  left 
him,  his  mind  no  longer  troubled  by  the  rector's  com- 
ments, but  turned  in  very  different  channels,  became 
conscious  of  voices  and  tappings  near  his  window.  He 
crossed  the  room  and  looked  down  on  Martin,  who  was 
laughing  while  he  worked.  The  draperies  concealed 
him  from  the  busy  boy. 

"A  sturdy  boy,  surely,"  mused  the  judge,  as  he 
watched  the  scene.  "There  must  be  a  strain  of  good 
blood  in  him.  He  doesn't  show  a  trace  of  the  ragged 
urchin  I  saved  from  that  brutal  Jacobs.  And  this  is 
simply  the  external  change — the  result  of  a  little  care 
and  training  and  proper  food.  The  stuff  for  improve- 
ment must  have  been  there  from  the  start.  Any  man 
might  be  proud  to  claim  his  parentage.  Strong  of 
limb,  firm  in  the  hips,  quick  of  eye,  and  deft  of  hand — 
yes,  a  very  good  specimen  of  a  wholesome  boy.  Fine 
head,  too,  with  its  mass  of  blond  hair;  but  rather  too 
full  in  the  imaginative  faculties — a  trifle  too  sensitive 

39 


Martin   Brook 

in  the  full-lipped  mouth;  but  the  teeth  are  large  and 
straight.  Blue -gray  e3'es,  under  prominent  brows — 
the  brow  of  the  observer.  It's  odd  I  have  never  noticed 
the  boy  before/' 

The  judge  turned  almost  fiercely  from  the  window. 

"Notice  him?"  he  said,  bitterly,  as  if  replying  to  a 
cynical  tormentor.  "Is  it  my  habit  to  notice  boys? 
Did  I  notice  little  Jimmy  until  it  was  too  late?" 

He  caught  his  breath  sharply  as  he  paced  the  room. 
"  Whose  fault  is  it  that  I  am  now  alone — childless, 
friendless,  a  failure  in  life?  Have  I  —  philosopher, 
student  of  psychology,  master  of  all  the  world  calls 
desirable — have  I  been  true  to  myself?  Have  I  done 
my  duty?"  He  flung  himself  into  his  chair,  dropping 
his  head  on  his  hands. 

"Poor  little  Jimmy!  Absorbed  in  my  own  self,  I 
had  no  place  in  my  heart  for  the  sister  or  the  sister's 
child — until  that  moment  when  I  was  suddenly  awak- 
ened to  the  fact  that  Jimmy  was  gone;  the  final  hope 
of  the  preservation  of  my  family  was  gone!" 

He  lifted  his  head  with  the  gesture  of  one  pleading 
his  cause. 

"No  one  knows  how  dwarfed  my  life  is,  and  how  I 
cannot  hide  this  fact  from  myself.  I  have  treated  Mar- 
garet's love  as  the  dust  beneath  my  feet,  and  I  have  shut 
myself  away  from  a  personal  thought  of  love  and  mar- 
riage.    Children  are  born  to  millions.     I  am  childless." 

He  started  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

"And  here  is  a  boy  —  a  waif  —  ignored,  forgotten, 
thrust  before  my  eyes  by  the  hand  of  Fate.  Is  this  a 
mockery?" 

He  drew  the  curtains  aside. 

Martin,  startled  by  the  sudden  appearance,  swayed 
and  clutched  at  the  ladder,  as  the  judge  said : 

"Margaret,  send  this  boy  to  me." 

"Yes,  brother,"  Mrs.  Wright  assented,  promptly. 

40 


Martin    Brook 

Martin  dropped  to  the  ground,  the  joy  gone  from  his 
face,  and  appealed  dumbly  to  her. 

"  You  must  obey/'  she  said,  firmly. 

For  the  third  time,  Martin  faced  the  judge.  He  was 
prepared  for  dismissal.  Mr.  Northcote  was  seated  with 
his  face  in  shadow,  his  handkerchief  clutched  in  his 
hand,  resting  on  his  knee,  while  the  boy  stood  where 
the  light  fell  full  upon  him.  The  judge  noticed,  with 
curious  interest,  that  there  was  neither  shrinking  nor 
defiance  in  his  attitude — only  an  air  of  resignation. 

"What  shall  I  do  to  you?"  the  judge  asked  at  last, 
touching  his  lips  daintily  with  the  handkerchief,  and 
slowly  replacing  it  in  his  coat  pocket. 

"  You  can  whip  me,  sir/' 

"Haven't  you  been  here  long  enough  to  learn  that 
we  do  not  whip  boys?" 

"They  need  it  sometimes,  sir,"  Martin  confessed. 

"Do  you  deserve  a  whipping?"  There  was  recourse 
to  the  snuff-box  now,  but  it  was  merely  poised  in  his 
hand. 

Martin  felt  the  intent  gaze  of  those  cold  gray  eyes, 
but  met  it  steadily.     The  judge  waited  for  reply. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  wrong,  but  I  did  wrong,"  Martin 
answered. 

"Ah!"  said  the  judge,  throwing  back  his  head  and 
gravely  stroking  his  chin. 

He  tapped  his  box  and  inhaled  a  morsel,  watching 
Martin  intently.  He  waited  to  flick  a  bit  of  dust  from 
his  sleeve  before  he  spoke  again,  and  adjust  the  white 
stock  about  his  neck.  But  when  he  spoke  his  voice 
was  mild. 

"  Boy,  where  did  you  learn  to  read?" 

Martin  looked  at  the  master,  surprised  at  the  tone. 
He  felt  that  the  judge  was  not  angry. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  said,  "my  mother  taught  me  first, 
when  I  was  at  the  old  home,  and  then  I  found  a  few 

41 


Martin    Brook 

books  in  the  garret  at  the — at  the  other  place.  But 
I've  learned  more  since  you  brought  me  here.  It's 
easy  to  read  in  this  house,  'cause  3Tou  have  candles, 
and  daytimes  I  ain't  very  busy." 

The  judge  watched  him  with  a  puzzled  expression 
as  his  voice  rose  to  the  high  treble  of  confidence. 

"  Who  told  you  j^ou  might  take  the  books?"  he  asked, 
with  assumed  sternness. 

"Oh,  sir,  not  your  books,"  Martin  explained,  "just 
the  ones  Mrs.  Wright's  got.  She  lets  me  take  them, 
and  she's  kind  to  me — and — and  I  love  her,  sir."  His 
voice  trailed  off  to  a  whisper. 

"You  say  you  haven't  much  to  do  here.  Idle  bo3Ts 
always  get  into  mischief,"  the  judge  went  on. 

" I'd  do  more  if  they'd  tell  me,  sir." 

The  murmur  in  the  judge's  throat  became  quite  au- 
dible. 

"M-m-m!     You  say  you  love  Mrs.  Wright?" 

"Yes,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"Come  here."  The  judge  suddenly  held  out  his 
hand.  Martin  came  shyly  forward.  The  master  drew 
him  between  his  knees.  He  took  the  boy's  head  in 
both  his  hands,  lifting  the  startled  face  into  the  full 
sunlight. 

Martin  was  thunderstruck.  Instead  of  blows  and 
angry  words,  there  was  actual  tenderness  in  the  touch 
of  the  great  man  for  whom  he  felt  unspeakable  awe. 

"  What  is  vour  father's  name?"  Mr.  Northcote  asked. 

"Albert  Brook,  sir." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  He  went  to  Pennsylvania  when 
my  mother  died,  and  there  wasn't  any  place  for  me  to 
live." 

"You  never  communicate  with  him?" 

"No,  sir." 

"My  boy,"  the  judge  said,  after  a  moment  of  silence 

42 


Martin    Brook 

"would  you  like  to  give  up  the  place  where  you  are 
now?" 

Martin  looked  pleadingly  into  his  questioner's  eyes: 
"If  you  can  forgive  me,  sir,  I'll  never  do  it  again — " 

"  I  don't  mean  that/'  Northcote  interposed,  impatient- 
ly7, pushing  Martin  from  him.  "I  don't  mean  to  send 
you  away.  I  am  speaking  of  the  kind  of  work  you  are 
doing  here.  You  say  you  are  not  kept  busy.  You 
say  your  father  has  given  you  up.  Would  you  like 
to  come  into  my  office  and  learn  to  set  type  and  be  a 
printer?" 

Martin's  great  blue  eyes  were  blurred  with  tears  of 
gratitude.     "I'd  rather  do  that  than  anything." 

"  I  will  arrange  for  you,  and  you  may  go  to  work, 
but  you  must  know  what  this  means.  You  will  have 
to  come  as  my  apprentice.  I  require  seven  years  of  in- 
denture. You  may  find  me  a  hard  master,  as — well, 
not  quite  like  Jacobs,  perhaps.  I'll  not  offend  myself 
by  saying  that ;  but  you  will  have  to  do  all  the  dis- 
agreeable work  at  the  office.  In  the  end  it  will  give  you 
a  trade  by  which  you  may  live.  Do  you  understand 
what  I  mean?" 

Martin  looked  puzzled. 

The  judge  suddenly  recollected  that  he  was  arguing 
an  imaginary  case  with  his  own  nature,  not  talking 
to  a  boy  under  his  complete  control.  He  knew  that 
work  that  soiled  the  hands  was  impossible  to  him,  and 
he  smiled  as  he  thought  of  this  plea  with  his  own  tastes. 

"Do  you  understand  my — my  orders?"  he  said,  more 
sternly,  in  self-defence  against  this  child's  searching 
look. 

"I  think  I  do,  sir,"  Martin  answered.  "But  what- 
ever you  say  is  right.     I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

The  judge  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  looked 
long  and  intently  at  the  boy.  Not  one  word  of  com- 
plaint, of   bitterness,  of  questioning  had  this  strange 

43 


Martin    Brook 

child  uttered.  Where  was  that  spirit  of  revolt  he  had 
shown  towards  Jacobs?  Where  that  gleam  of  defiance 
when  he  was  found  in  the  library?  Xow  there  was 
only  obedience,  gratitude,  and  acceptance  of  authorit}' 
in  patience. 

The  boy  was,  indeed,  worth  the  effort  of  a  little  study- 
ing. 

"I  think  it  would  be  well,  Martin/'  the  judge  said, 
as  though  speaking  to  an  equal  "  if  I  gave  you  instruc- 
tion in  a  simple  way.  I  shall  require  of  you  an  hour  a 
day  to  recite  such  lessons  as  I  may  select'  for  you  to 
learn.     That  is  all."     He  motioned  towards  the  door. 

Martin  went  out  and  softly  shut  the  door.  Mrs- 
Wright  was  waiting  in  the  corridor.  He  flung  his  arms 
about  her,  nestling  close  in  her  embrace,  and  sobbed : 

"He's  forgiven  me,  ma'am!  And  he's  going  to 
make  me  a  printer,  and  he's  going  to  teach  me,  and  I 
think  he's  the  greatest  and  best  man  that  ever  lived  1" 


Chapter  V 

WHEN  Judge  Northcote  told  his  sister  of  the  new 
plan  for  Martin's  advancement,  Mrs.  Wright  said,  with 
a  preening  motion  of  approval :  "  You'll  not  find  the  boy 
lacking  in  appreciation,  George.  I  have  noticed  his 
brightness  and  willingness." 

And  so  it  proved.  For  although  Martin  was  not  ad- 
mitted to  the  family  table,  he  was  not  only  lifted  above 
the  level  of  domestic  service,  but  given  opportunities 
for  study.  In  the  work  at  the  printer's  case,  and  in  the 
sanctum,  where  he  recited  his  lessons,  he  showed,  in 
every  way,  a  sense  of  gratitude  and  a  readiness  to  learn. 

The  encouragement  given  him  necessarily  made  him 
more  self-reliant.  He  proved  this  quality  by  becoming 
a  leader  among  the  village  boys  in  out-door  sports;  but 
his  chief  fame  with  them  lay  in  his  skill  as  a  swimmer. 

While  he  was  never  boastful  nor  quarrelsome,  and 
avoided  a  fight  if  possible,  he  was  always  ready  for  a 
friendly  wrestle  on  the  green.  But,  in  the  fortunes  of 
this  peaceful  pastime,  he  one  day  lost  caste  by  silently 
enduring  an  insult  from"'  the  village  champion.  He 
had  fairly  thrown  his  opponent,  when  the  boy  became 
angry  and  called  him  a  bad  name.  Under  the  unwrit- 
ten code,  no  boy  who  could  fight  would  stand  that; 
yet  Martin  had  left  the  playground  without  proposing 
battle. 

One  afternoon,  shortly  after  this  loss  of  standing, 
Martin  came  whistling  along  the  office  hall  to  the  street 
door,  happy  and  contented.   He  no  longer  wore  Jimmy's 

45 


Martin    Brook 

clothes,  but  was  neatly  fitted  by  the  village  seamstress. 
But  this  was  not  the  cause  of  his  good-nature  now. 
He  had  this  very  day  made  a  record  as  a  compositor. 
There  was  a  tradition  in  the  Sentinel  office  about  a  cer- 
tain "tramp"  printer  who  had  set  more  than  a  thou- 
sand ems  an  hour.  The  story  was  the  incentive  for 
every  new  apprentice.  Martin  had  beaten  that "  string. " 
He  had  set  eleven  hundred  ems  an  hour,  and  had  "  kept 
it  up"  for  four  hours.  It  was  rapid  work  for  a  bo}7  of 
fifteen,  and  he  was  proud  of  the  showing.  His  reward 
was  the  silent  approval  shown  03^  Judge  Northcote — 
that  slight  pursing  of  the  lips  and  lifting  of  the  brows 
that  meant  more  than  words. 

Martin  stopped  on  the  office  threshold  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  street,  like  a  victor  at  peace  with  all 
the  world.  It  was  a  matter  he  couldn't  speak  of  to  any 
of  his  boy  associates,  because  typesetting  was  a  mys- 
tery of  the  craft  that  might  be  discussed  intelligibly 
only  with  fellow-craftsmen.  But  he  knew  that  Mrs. 
Wright  would  understand  and  rejoice  when  he  told  her 
of  his  work,  without  asking  what  an  " em"  was,  or  why 
"a  thousand  an  hour"  need  be  called  a  proof  of  his 
proficiency.  He  knew  that  she  would  comprehend 
and  appreciate  his  skill,  because  the  judge  himself  had 
evinced  satisfaction. 

Martin's  appearance  in  the  doorway  was  evidently 
the  signal  for  a  most  surprising  demonstration.  A 
crowd  of  boys  came  scurrying  towards  him,  like  a  pack 
of  fox-hounds  out  of  leash.  They  issued  from  every 
hiding-place  at  once,  with  shrill  calls,  and  swarmed 
around  the  office.  They  overran  the  street.  They  gath- 
ered at  the  curb  before  him,  and  formed  a  compact 
group.  The  smaller  boys  darted  about  the  outskirts  of 
the  noisy  crowd,  panting  with  eagerness. 

Martin  looked  down  on  them,  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, curious  and  smiling. 

•     46 


Martin    Brook 

"What's  the  matter,  boys?"  he  asked.  "Got  a  new 
game?" 

"There  he  is!  Here  he  comes!"  shouted  a  little  fel- 
low in  the  middle  of  the  street,  as  the  village  bully 
swaggered  up  and  stood  in  the  gutter  opposite  to 
Martin. 

"Say,  Martin,"  yelled  a  boy,  "here's  a  feller  wants 
to  see  you." 

"Well,"  said  Martin,  "if  he  ain't  blind,  I  guess  he 
can  see  me  here. " 

A  laugh  went  up  from  the  scuffling,  dancing  crowd — 
the  laugh  of  a  mob  in  miniature. 

Martin's  face  grew  grave  as  he  took  in  the  meaning 
of  this  shout.  It  was  not  a  new  game,  then,  that  con- 
fronted him,  but  the  old  game  of  supremacy.  His 
gaze  ran  quickly  over  the  group:  the  central  figure  of 
the  village  fighter,  in  his  blue  hickory  shirt  with  splashes 
of  red  on  the  sleeves  — the  village  butcher's  appren- 
tice, who  could  throw  a  calf  or  swing  a  sheep  on  the 
shambles  with  any  man  in  the  shop;  next,  the  boy 
with  a  stone  bruise  on  his  heel,  who  limped  as  he  ran ; 
and  the  boy  with  a  thorn  in  his  grimy  toe,  sitting  on  the 
curb  and  scowling  as  he  pulled  the  sliver  out;  the  in- 
different boy,  who  had  been  whipped  by  the  bully  and 
had  lost  caste,  and  who  was  shying  a  stone  at  a  pass- 
ing dog;  and  then  his  eyes  came  back  again  to  the 
bully.  He  was  two  years  older  than  Martin,  heavier 
by  twenty  pounds,  and  broader  in  the  hips.  His  bare 
arms,  where  the  sleeves  were  rolled  to  the  shoulders, 
were  muscular,  and  his  face  was  hard.  The  square 
jaw  was  thrust  out,  and  he  was  biting  at  a  black  twist 
of  sailors'  tobacco. 

"  That  won't  make  him  sick,"  asserted  an  admirer. 

"Naw,  but  you  can't  chew,"  sneered  another.  "I 
can  if  I  want  to — but  I  don't  want  to." 

"'Cause  your  father  licked  you,"  yelled  a  third. 

47 


Martin    Brook 

A  big  boy  stepped  to  the  front,  like  the  herald  at  a 
tournament. 

"Say,  Martin,  Butch  is  goin'  to  lick  you!  Ain't 
you,  Butch?" 

Butch  pulled  his  cap  over  his  left  ear  and  spat  con- 
temptuously. 

"I  guess  not/'  said  Martin,  quietly.  "It  takes  two 
to  make  a  fight." 

"Aw!"  rang  out  a  derisive  chorus. 

"  Well,  he  can  lick  you,  anyway.  Can't  you,  Butch?" 
the  herald  affirmed. 

The  champion  fighter  turned  his  head  on  his  short 
thick  neck,  but  deigned  no  reply.  His  defiance  bore 
the  insolence  of  supreme  contempt.  He  posed  before 
the  boys  as  a  gladiator  before  a  Roman  host.  His 
record  was  without  a  flaw,  and  his  standing  challenge 
was  known  of  men. 

Martin  grew  pale.  There  was  a  tingling  sensation 
up  and  down  his  spine,  and  a  hot  pounding  at  the  base 
of  his  brain.  The  look  of  gratified  intelligence  faded 
from  his  eyes.  He  was  no  longer  the  victor  at  peace 
with  all  the  world. 

Martin  knew  that  Judge  Northcote  could  hear  the 
threat.  The  office  windows  were  open.  The  sound 
of  his  footsteps  was  audible  as  the  judge  crossed  the 
room  and  came  in  view  of  the  crowd.  The  bo\Ts  under 
the  windows  skulked  down  and  ran  crouching  in  differ- 
ent directions.  Martin  listened  for  his  master's  voice 
ordering  the  boys  awray;  but  the  judge  was  silent. 

The  butcher's  boy  ducked  his  head  and  assumed 
a  more  offensive  attitude.  He  actually  looked  Judge 
Northcote  in  the  face.  "Lick  him?"  he  sneered.  "I 
kin  lick  him  any  day  in  the  week." 

"What  are  you  going  to  lick  me  for?"  Martin 
asked. 

The  champion  gave  a  snort,  and  spat  again  on  the 

48 


Martin    Brook 

ground.     He   turned   towards   his   audience,   grinning 
in  reply :  "  He  wants  to  know  what  f  er ! " 

The  boys,  squatted  on  the  curb,  or  standing  in  the 
road,  were  in  no  hurry  to  begin  the  show.  The  defiance 
and  delay  was  a  part  of  their  greatest  pleasure.  Keen 
enjoyment  was  manifest  in  every  face.  Some  of  the 
urchins,  as  they  sat,  were  scooping  the  dust  of  the  gut- 
ter about  their  feet  and  kicking  it  into  the  air,  shower- 
ing each  other  with  it. 

"Aw,  stop  that/'  cried  one,  "or  Til  smack  ye!"  He 
jumped  up  and  skimmed  a  stone  at  a  venturesome  bird 
in  the  big  elm  by  the  inn  corner.  The  spirit  of  destruc- 
tion was  rife. 

The  bully  pulled  himself  together.  "I'm  goin'  to 
lick  you,  sissy,  'cause  I  kin;  that's  what  I'm  goin'  to 
lick  you  fer!" 

Martin  started  down  the  steps.  "I  don't  want  to 
have  any  trouble  with  you,"  he  said,  calmly. 

The  judge  was  closing  the  windows.  A  moment 
later  he  came  out,  walked  through  the  crowd  without 
speaking,  and  went  towards  Elmhurst. 

" That's  right,  sissy,"  said  the  butcher's  boy.  "  Bet- 
ter go  home  with  him,  hadn't  you?" 

Martin  did  not  stir. 

The  boys,  now  that  the  judge  was  gone,  began  to 
form  a  circle  about  the  pair.  One  of  them  pushed  a 
little  fellow  against  Martin,  almost  upsetting  him,  and 
darted  away  to  a  chorus  of  yells. 

A  number  of  men,  congregated  near  the  inn  porch,  were 
watching  the  affair.  To  Martin  it  seemed  as  if  the  eyes 
of  the  world  were  upon  him,  and  that  he  was  friendless. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  firmly,  "I  don't  want  to  fight. 
There  isn't  any  quarrel  between  us." 

"Naw,  is  that  so?"  the  bully  said,  mockingly.     He 
picked  up  a  chip  and  laid  it  on  his  shoulder.     "  That's 
my  quarrel.     Knock  it  off,  if  ye  dare!" 
D  49 


Martin    Brook 

Martin  slowly  moved  away,  pushing  the  boys  aside 
to  force  a  path. 

"He's  afraid!"  the  boys  screamed.  The  crowd  took 
up  the  chorus  :  "  'Fraidy  !  Traidy  !  Traid  -  cat ! 
'Fraidy!" 

Martin  became  conscious  that  a  strange  boy,  smaller 
than  himself,  was  walking  by  his  side  and  looking  up 
into  his  face,  with  ingenuous  curiosity.  He  turned, 
half  angrily,  on  this  intrusion  that  was  harder  to  bear 
than  the  taunts  of  his  own  associates. 

"Why  don't  you  lick  him?"  the  boy  asked. 

"Who  are  you?"  Martin  said,  stopping.  The  stran- 
ger was  not  like  the  Sandy  Hill  boys.  He  was  well 
dressed,  and  wore  neat  shoes.  He  was  a  sturdy,  red- 
headed chap,  of  about  fourteen,  but  much  too  small  for 
an  encounter  with  the  butcher. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  don't  belong  here.  Live  in  Troy. 
That's  my  father,"  pointing  to  a  prosperous  -  looking 
man  on  the  inn  porch.  "  We're  waiting  for  the  stage. 
If  that  bully  was  in  my  street,  he'd  get  what  he  needs." 

The  village  boys  had  by  this  time  perceived  that 
Martin  and  the  stranger  were  talking.  A  minute  suf- 
ficed to  show  them  a  new  situation.  A  boy  in  good 
clothes  and  shoes — and  a  stranger. 

"Aw,"  they  cried.  "Look  at  the  city  buck!  Look 
at  the  city  buck!" 

They  circled  about  Martin  and  his  companion,  in  a 
war-dance,  turning  cart-wheels  and  screaming  their 
contempt  for  the  stranger. 

Butch  eyed  them  with  complacent  superiority.  "I 
kin  lick  "em  both  to  once  and  one  hand  tied  behind  me." 

"Charley!"  the  father  called  from  the  porch. 

The  boy  looked  at  the  champion.  "  You  come  down 
to  Troy,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  wisely,  as  he  started 
to  obey  his  father. 

Butch  ran  up  and  grabbed  the  boy.     Martin  sprang 

50 


Martin    Brook 

between  them,  pushing  the  bully's  arm  aside.     "Let 
him  alone!"  he  commanded. 

The  champion's  left  fist  shot  out,  catching  Martin 
squarely  on  the  cheek. 

Martin  staggered  beneath  the  blow.  A  shout  went 
up  from  the  bully's  admirers  as  he  leaped  forward  to 
follow  up  his  advantage.  Martin  recovered  his  bal- 
ance and  braced  himself  for  the  rough-and-tumble 
assault  he  saw  must  come.  He  knew  that  the  cham- 
pion's tactics  were  to  hurl  an  antagonist  to  the  ground, 
by  main  strength,  and  hold  him  there  until  he  pleaded 
for  mercy. 

But,  as  Butch  threw  himself  forward,  Martin  turned 
quickly  to  the  left,  wheeled  on  his  heel,  and  brought 
his  right  arm  in  an  upward  circle,  striking  his  foe  full 
on  the  unguarded  jaw.     Butch  lurched,  regained  his 
poise,  and,  with  head  bent  low,  dashed  in  once  more. 
He  seized  Martin  below  the  arms  and  lifted  him  from 
the  ground.     Martin  grasped  his  enemy  by  the  throat, 
and,  with  a  sudden  twist,  bent  him  backward  until  his  own 
feet  touched  the  earth.     Then,  wrenching  himself  free, 
he  struck  Butch  at  short  range  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
The  bully  dropped  to  his  knees,  looked  up  at  Martin 
gaspingly,  and  fell,  face  downwards,  insensible. 
3  Martin  stood  over  him,  pale  and  trembling. 
The  men  came  running  up. 
" I  have  killed  him!"  Martin  cried. 
"No,    you   haven't,"    said   the   strange   gentleman. 
"Here,"  he  ordered  the  men,  "carry  this  young  brute 
up  there.     He  will  be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes."     The 
men  picked  the  unconscious  boy  up  and  laid  him  on 
the  porch. 

"Now,  young  man,"  the  stranger  said  to  Martin, 
"  I  saw  the  whole  affair.  If  you  ever  need  a  justifica- 
tion, call  on  me.  Perhaps  your  folks  don't  like  to  have 
you  fight." 

51 


Martin    Brook 

"  What  is  your  name,  sir?''  Martin  asked. 

"Robert  Chichester,  of  Troy,  and  this  youngster, 
who  has  been  the  cause  of  the  fight,  is  my  boy."  He 
took  the  little  fellow  by  the  shoulder.  "  Charley,  shake 
hands  with —     See,  what's  your  name?" 

"Martin  Brook,  sir." 

"Yes;  well,  shake  hands,  Charley  and  Martin." 
The  bo3Ts  shook  hands. 

"I  wish  3^011  lived  in  my  street,"  Charle3^  said. 

The  sound  of  the  approaching  stage-coach  was  heard. 
"There's  the  coach!"  Mr.  Chichester  exclaimed.  "  We 
are  going  home.     Tell  your  father,  Martin — " 

"Do  you  mean  Judge  Northcote,  sir?" 

"Oh,"  Mr.  Chichester  remarked;  "oh,  yes,  I  see. 
You're  his  apprentice?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  call  on  the  judge 
and  tell  him  all  about  this  matter;  but  please  say  to 
him  that  I  present  1113^  compliments,  and  if  he  needs 
an  account  of  it,  I  am  read3T  to  vindicate  you."  He 
patted  Martin  on  the  shoulder. 

"Thank  3Tou,  sir,"  Martin  said,  "but  I  shall  tell  the 
judge  the  truth."  Then  to  Charle3T,  with  a  smile: 
"I'll  call  on  you  the  next  time  I  need  help." 

"Help?"  CharW  replied  in  admiration.  "I  guess 
you  don't  need  anybody's  help.  But  it  made  me  mad 
to  see  them  all  pitch  on  3Tou.  I  wish  I  was  as  strong 
and  spry  as  3Tou  are.  Better  come  down  to  Tro3T  and 
lick  a  few  bo3Ts  there." 

The  coach  whirled  up  to  the  inn.  Mr.  Chichester 
and  Charle3^  climbed  to  the  top.  The  butcher's  boy 
was  sitting,  doubled  over,  on  the  inn  steps. 

"Feel  all  right  now?"  Charle3^  called  to  him. 

The  humbled  bulhT  made  no  repty. 

"Good-bye,  Martin!"  Charley  sang  out.  "I  sha'n't 
forget  3Tou." 

52 


Martin    Brook 

Martin's  good-bye  was  lost  in  the  clatter  of  the  de- 
parting coach.  He  waved  his  hand.  The  action  made 
him  wince.     The  hand  was  swollen  and  bruised. 

He  went  up  to  his  antagonist.  "I'm  sorry  I  hurt 
you  so/'  he  said. 

The  boy  looked  up  at  him. 

"Say,"  he  replied,  slowly,  "kin  you  learn  me  how 
you  done  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  good-naturedly,  "if  you  want 
me  to." 

"Oh,  I've  had  enough  for  one  day." 

Martin  left  him  sitting  on  the  porch  and  went  home. 
He  made  up  his  mind  to  go  straight  to  the  judge  and 
tell  him  not  only  of  the  fight,  but  why  he  had  tried 
to  avoid  it — to  avert  the  disgrace  of  such  a  thing.  But 
at  the  gate  he  encountered  Eph  Larrabee. 

"  Hello !"  cried  Eph.  "  What's  the  matter  with  your 
face?  Been  through  a  fannin'  mill?"  Martin  hurried 
along  past  the  grinning  man,  who  called  after  him: 
"  I  knowed  a  feller  once  had  just  such  an  eye.  Got  it 
in  a  fight — " 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "and  he  licked  the  other  feller, 
too?" 

"  Did  he?  I  swan !  We  must  have  knowed  the  same 
one.     I'm  proud  o'  your  acquaintance." 

Martin  went  right  up  to  the  judge's  rooms. 

"I  have  been  doing  something  wrong,  sir,"  he  began. 

"You  have  been  fighting?"  the  judge  said,  frowning. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  tried  to  avoid  a  street  fight,  because  I 
think  it  beneath  the  dignity  of  this  family;  but  the 
bully  pitched  on  to  a  smaller  boy  and  I  had  to  fight." 

The  judge  looked  at  the  bruise  on  Martin's  cheek 
and  scowled  at  the  appearance  of  his  hands. 

"  And  that  butcher's  boy  whipped  3Tou?" 

"No,  sir,"  cried  Martin,  warmly,  "but  I  was  afraid 
at  first  tha,t  I  had  killed  him." 

53 


Martin    Brook 

"Oh,"  said  the  judge,  tapping  his  snuff-box  softly. 
"Will  you  explain  your  meaning?" 

Martin  told  the  story  of  the  fight,  and  repeated  the 
words  of  the  gentleman  from  Troy. 

"Mr.  Chichester?"  the  judge  mused.  "A  ver\T  fine 
gentleman.  Yes.  In  the  wool-trade,  I  believe.  H'm! 
Well,  my  bo}7,  I  shall  simpl3T  say  that  our  mutual  friend 
Shakespeare  caused  the  eccentric  Polonius  to  advise 
against  entrance  upon  a  quarrel,  but  when  once  a  quar- 
rel is  thrust  on  us — you  recall  the  lines,  no  doubt.  By- 
the-way,  is  the  boy  fully  recovered?" 

"I  think  so,"  Martin  replied,  with  a  repressed  smile. 
"  He  asked  me  to  teach  him  how  to  do  it." 

"H'm!  My  boy,  fisticuffs  are  very  vulgar;  but  a 
change  in  social  customs  is  noticeable  everywhere." 
His  eyes  wandered  to  a  brace  of  duelling  pistols  hang- 
ing on  the  wall  beneath  a  pair  of  inlaid  rapiers.  He  saw 
Martin's  eyes  follow  him.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "Family 
heirlooms.  Quite  out  of  use  now — quite  out  of  use. 
Still,  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  instruct  the  commoner 
classes  in  a  due  reverence  of  the  law.  And  it  is  also  by 
the  law  that  we  are  permitted  to  defend  the  weak  and 
to  maintain  our  own  dignity.  Walk  within  the  law, 
my  boy,  and — well,  if  need  be,  compel  others  to  do  the 
same."  He  glanced  at  Martin's  hand.  "Perhaps  an 
application  of  some  lotion  will  relieve  you." 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  stop  my  type-setting  for  awhile," 
Martin  lamented.  "I  was  so  proud  of  what  I  did  to- 
dav  in  the  office ;  and  now  this  miserable  fight  spoils  it 
all" 

"  Perhaps  so,  for  a  short  time,  but  \7ou  need  not  be 
concerned  about  it,"  the  judge  said.  "Each  day 
brings  us  the  proper  lesson." 

He  dismissed  Alar  tin  by  a  wave  of  the  hand,  but  evi- 
dently not  the  theme ;  for  that  night,  mindful  of  his 
polite  duties,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Mr.  Chichester,  ac- 

54 


Martin    Brook 

knowledging  his  compliments.  It  was  a  formal  mes- 
sage, in  which  appeared  this  sentence :  "  I  have  found 
a  very  interesting  boy  in  this  lad  through  whom  you 
transmitted  your  friendly  greeting.  I  think  he  is  capa- 
ble of  winning  in  almost  any  form  of  contest ;  although, 
of  course,  I  deprecate  the  present-day  method  of  ex- 
pressing prowess." 


I 


Chapter  VI 

WHILE  the  judge's  manner  towards  Martin,  after 
this  affair  with  the  butcher's  boy,  was  unquestionably 
more  considerate,  his  kindness  was  not  the  only  benefit 
that  ensued.  Great  as  this  good  was,  in  the  e3^es  of  all, 
the  practical  advantage  to  him  came  all  the  way  from 
Mrs.  Wright,  down  through  the  entire  household,  to 
the  lowest  servant.  Below  stairs  he  had  ceased  to  be 
counted  as  one  of  their  number. 

Those  social  barriers,  too,  which  on  the  first  day  of 
his  arrival  sent  him  to  the  kitchen,  when  Mary  Whit- 
taker  was  taken  in  at  the  front  door,  were  gradually 
disappearing  in  the  family  circle. 

There  was  very  little  social  life  at  Elmhurst,  it  is 
true,  but  there  existed  between  the  families  of  the  rector, 
the  doctor,  and  the  judge  an  understanding  which 
placed  them  all  on  the  plane  of  visitors;  and  in  their 
attitude  towards  Mary,  Mrs.  Weight  and  Mrs.  Coulter 
were  equally  devoted  to  the  motherless  child  of  Dr. 
Whittaker.  Most  of  Mary's  leisure  hours  were  passed 
at  Elmhurst,  and  through  this  unavoidable  association 
of  Martin  and  Mary,  although  he  was  still  an  appren- 
tice, they  were  permitted  to  become  close  friends. 
Whenever  Judge  Northcote  nodded  his  head  approv- 
ingly, no  one  thought  to  question  him;  and  when  the 
doctor,  who  was  without  caste  prejudices,  and  as  un- 
conventional in  his  dress  and  manners  as  the  judge 
was  precise/  joined  in  the  judge's  sanction  of  this 
friendship  between  the  children,   the  matter  was  ac- 

56 


Martin    Brook 

c opted  by  every  one  as  right  and  proper.  Martin  came, 
in  the  natural  order  of  things,  to  regard  himself  almost 
in  the  light  of  a  brother  to  Mary. 

The  doctor,  an  avowed  anti-slavery  man,  and  the 
only  person  in  Sandy  Hill  who  ventured  to  dispute  the 
rising  national  issue  with  the  judge,  approved  of 
Northcote's  action  in  rescuing  Martin  from  Jacobs, 
and  he  often  alluded  to  it  in  vindication  of  the  theory 
of  personal  liberty. 

For  on  Dr.  Whittaker's  part  there  was  a  feeling  of 
admiration  for  Martin  in  that  broader  spirit  of  democ- 
racy which  characterized  him,  and  he  had  shown  this 
on  several  occasions,  but  more  convincingly  than  ever 
one  day  when  Martin  chanced  to  come  into  the  sanc- 
tum in  the  course  of  business.  As  the  boy  quitted  the 
room,  the  doctor,  continuing  his  discussion  with  the 
judge  on  the  slavery  question,  remarked : 

"Now,  judge,  there's  a  boy  after  my  own  heart. 
He's  a  living  illustration  of  the  point  I  was  making. 
You  took  that  lad  out  of  bondage.  See  what  you  have 
done  for  him.  You  have  given  him  an  opportunity, 
and  he  has  improved  it.  He's  bright,  efficient,  indus- 
trious, truthful — " 

"But  Martin  had  in  him  the  materials  for  improve- 
ment," the  judge  said,  pursing  his  lips. 

"Very  true;  but  we  can  say  that  of  all  human 
beings.  Each  develops  according  to  the  measure  and 
quality  of  the  materials  within  him.  The  principle  is  the 
same.  All  cannot  become  great  men,  but  each  should 
be  given  a  chance  to  do  the  best  of  which  he  is  capable." 

"My  dear  doctor,"  the  judge  said,  smiling,  "you 
do  not  know  the  African  race  as  well  as  I  do.  They 
were  created  for  service." 

"Then  give  them  the  opportunity  for  free  service." 

"  Whenever  the  law  so  ordains,  I  shall  be  the  first  to 
observe  it,"  the  judge  replied,  conclusively.     "I  leave 

57 


Martin    Brook 

the  question  with  our  Southern  friends,  preciseh7  as  I 
approved  of  emancipation  in  our  own  State.  It  is  a 
matter  of  climate  and  economy." 

"I  shall  make  my  own  laws  on  that  subject/'  the 
doctor  declared,  stoutly. 

"Be  prudent,  my  dear  sir,"  the  rector  interposed. 
"The  judge  is  right  in  affirming  the  difference  in  the 
races.  And,  besides,  we  cannot  alwa3Ts  carry  out  an 
abstract  theory  in  individual  cases." 

"Certainly  not,"  the  doctor  replied,  "so  long  as 
Church  and  State  recognize  the  existence  of  caste  and 
differences  in  race,  while  professing  to  teach  equality 
and  spiritual  freedom." 

About  a  week  after  this  conversation  occurred,  as 
Martin  was  passing  Dr.  Whittaker's  house,  he  saw 
Mary  by'  the  gate,  and  lifted  his  hat  in  cheery  greeting  ; 
but  she  appeared  anxious  and  perturbed. 

"Martin,"  she  said,  "will  you  please  come  in  a  mo- 
ment? Father  is  away,  and  there's  some  one  here  whom 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with." 

"A  sick  person?"  he  asked,  entering  the  yard. 

"No,"  she  said,  doubtingly.     "A  negro." 

"What's  he  done?"  Martin  demanded. 

"Nothing,"  Mary  said,  quickly.     "He's  in  trouble." 

"Oh,  in  trouble?     Where  is  he?" 

Mary  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room.  A  negro  in 
a  ragged  flannel  shirt,  tattered  trousers,  and  worn 
shoes  was  standing  near  the  long  window  that  opened 
on  the  lawn.  As  Martin  stepped  up  to  him  the  man 
bowed  low,  sweeping  the  floor  with  his  torn  hat. 

"  What  do  3^ou  want?"  Martin  asked. 

"Work,  sah,"  the  man  replied. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?  Who  is  your  mas- 
ter?" 

"I's  free,  sah.     Ole  Enoch's  free,  sah." 

"Free?"  Martin  repeated.     "I  know  every  black  man 


Martin    Brook 

in  the  village.     You  don't  belong  here.     You  look  like 
a  runaway." 

«  Sh__sh— hush!"  the  negro  cautioned,  looking  about 
him.     "  I  reckon  you's  got  sharp  eyes,  sah." 

"Are  you  a  runaway  slave  from  outside  this  State?" 
Martin  insisted.  The  man  looked  inquiringly  at  Mary, 
who  nodded  reassuringly. 

"Yes,  sah,"  the  negro  said,  "an'  I  reckon  I  kin  trust 
you,  sah." 

"  You  can.     What  is  that  scar  on  your  face?" 

"Dat's  whar  de  oberseer  hit  me,  sah." 

Martin's  cheek  flushed  at  the  memory  of  a  blow  he 
himself  had  once  felt. 

"I  will  try  to  help  you,"  said  Martin,  thoughtfully. 
He  turned  to  Mary.  "  Does  your  father  help  runaway 
slaves?" 

"He  helps  all  who  need  help,  Martin,"  she  replied. 

"When  will  he  be  at  home?" 

"  Not  before  to-morrow.  He  was  called  on  a  serious 
case  in  the  country,"  she  said. 

"I  can't  do  very  much,"  Martin  mused.  "But  we 
mustn't  leave  him  here." 

"Don't  you  think  that  Judge  Northcote  would  give 
him  work?"  she  inquired. 

"He  wouldn't  if  he  knew  that  the  man  was  a  run- 
away," Martin  said.  "I've  heard  him  talk  about  the 
law.  The  law  won't  let  us  help  a  fugitive— that  is,  if 
his  owner  wants  to  get  him  back.  It  is  a  matter  I  don't 
quite  understand." 

"It  is  a  wicked  law,"  Mary  declared.  "Our  own 
State  has  freed  the  slaves— or,  rather,  in  two  years 
more  they  will  all  be  free  in  New  York." 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  the  law?"  Martin 
asked  in  surprise. 

"Father  has  often  talked  of  it.  He  has  papers  that 
say  so,  too,"  she  replied. 

59 


Martin    Brook 

"That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  niggers  from  other 
States/'  Martin  said,  as  he  crossed  the  room  and  stood 
by  an  open  window,  half  conscious  of  the  scene  before 
him  —  the  lawn,  with  its  clumps  of  shrubbery  and 
dense  hedge  that  divided  the  doctor's  yard  from  the 
Graham  homestead.  His  mind  was  occupied  with  a 
problem  new  to  him — the  problem  of  a  man's  right  to 
personal  freedom.  His  own  cruel  experiences  came 
trooping  up  before  him.  But  his  attention  was  di- 
verted from  the  thought  in  mind  by  the  appearance  of 
Sidney  Graham,  who  came  out  of  the  house,  paused 
in  the  path,  and  looked  over  the  hedge,  as  if  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Mary  in  the  doctor's  yard. 

Sidney  Graham,  who  would  some  day  be  the  richest 
young  man  in  Sandy  Hill,  and  yet  the  onty  one  among 
the  boys  of  the  village  for  whom  he  had  an  instinctive 
aversion.  Nobody  liked  him.  He  was  the  most  un- 
popular boy  in  town.  To  the  little  barefoot  democrats 
of  the  place  he  was  known  as  "Dandy  of  Sandy,"  a 
term  so  indefinably  opprobrious  in  the  lips  of  the  youth- 
ful Sandy  Hillites  that  it  was  held  to  express  transcen- 
dent contempt.  He  outraged  the  feelings  of  the  boys 
by  always  being  immaculately  dressed,  with  an  aping 
of  his  elders — a  fashion-plate  of  style  presumedly  in 
vogue  in  Albaiw  or  New  York,  or  somewhere  be- 
yond the  personal  acquaintance  of  the  Sandy  Hillites. 
He  was  an  offender — always  with  the  boys,  yet  never 
one  of  them.  And  the  crowning  insult  to  the  village 
youths  was  his  habit  of  carrying  a  little  cane  with  a 
single  eye-glass  set  in  the  handle.  He  had  a  way  of 
holding  it  to  his  e}Te  and  gazing  contemptuously  at 
the  boys  until  he  drove  them  to  aggressive  fury.  Now 
his  presence  awakened  resentment  in  Martin,  as  he 
stood  there  evidently  to  attract  Mary's  notice.  Martin 
watched  him  affectedly  flick  his  sleeves  with  his  gloves 
and  go  sauntering  down  the  street. 

60 


Martin    Brook 

Martin  turned  and  looked  at  the  negro. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do/'  he  said  to  the  man.  "  Wait 
until  you  see  Judge  Northcote — that  is  he  going  along 
the  street  now — wait  until  you  see  he  is  alone  in  his 
office,  and  then  go  in  and  ask  for  work." 

"Thank  you,  young  marster." 

Martin  waited  until  the  negro  had  walked  away  up 
the  street,  and  then  he  passed  on  down  to  the  printing- 
office.  He  could  not  get  the  man  out  of  his  thoughts. 
The  look  in  those  eager  eyes,  the  soiled  woollen  shirt, 
the  worn  shoes  and  tattered  trousers,  recalled  his  own 
days  of  hopeless  poverty.  The  man  seemed  older  than 
he  really  was.  His  watchful  manner  was  like  that  of  a 
hunted  animal,  not  a  human  being;  and  yet  Martin 
was  sure  that  the  judge  would  be  generous  to  him. 
Martin  was  in  the  back  office,  still  thinking  of  this  en- 
counter, when,  an  hour  later,  a  kinky  head  appeared 
cautiously  in  the  open  doorway  of  Judge  Northcote's 
private  office,  where  he  was  sitting,  leisurely  enjoying 
a  morning  pipe. 

"Fs  lookin'  fo'  de  marster,  sab,"  the  negro  said, 
twisting  and  bowing. 

"Well/'  the  judge  said,  indifferently. 

"  I  reckon  dey  ain't  much  doin'  round  yo'  place  jus' 
now,  sah,  is  dey?"     The  grin  broadened. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  Why,  sah,  ef  you  could  fin'  sumpin'  fo'  a  'spectable 
purson,  I  reckon  I's  dat,"  the  man  replied,  with  a  wist- 
ful look. 

"  I  haven't  anything  to  offer  you,"  the  judge  replied. 

"Thank  yo',  sah.  De  young  gem'man  said  you 
might  be  needin'  some  help  'bout  de  place — " 

The  judge  crossed  the  room  and  flung  open  the  door 
to  the  printing-office. 

"Martin,"  he  said,  sharply,  "did  you  send  this  fel- 
low to  me?" 

61 


Martin    Brook 

"I  met  him  by  chance/'  Martin  answered,  coming 
into  the  sanctum,  "  and  he  asked  me  for  work/' 

"Do  you  think  I  can  furnish  work  for  everybody?" 

"No,  sir,  but  I  couldn't  help  remembering  how  you 
have  helped  some  who  needed  your  aid." 

The  judge  looked  quizzingly  at  Martin.  He  felt  that 
he  was  being  regarded  with  admiration,  and  that  he 
must  live  up  to  the  ideal.  Besides,  the  experiences  of 
the  last  few  years  had  made  him  more  tolerant  of  the 
need3^. 

"  Well,  well/'  he  said,  throwing  himself  into  his  chair, 
"I  don't  believe  there  is  work  for  more  servants." 

"  Elmhurst  seems  to  be  a  place  where  there  is  always 
room  for  one  more,"  Martin  suggested. 

"Elmhurst  has  its  limitations,"  the  judge  replied. 

"Not  in  its  kindness,  sir,"  Martin  said.  "There  is 
no  limit  to  that,  and  this  poor  fellow  is  in  need." 

Through  Martin's  mind  ran  the  one  thought  of  free- 
dom— freedom  to  do  honest  work  for  just  pay ;  freedom 
from  blows  that  left  a  livid  mark.  His  heart  was  filled 
with  appreciation  of  his  own  release,  and  his  voice  rang 
clear  with  the  note  of  human  sympathy. 

The  judge  looked  at  him  in  pleased  surprise.  The 
boy  did  value  what  had  been  done  for  him — a  compli- 
ment which  touched  the  inmost  sense  and  confirmed 
Whittaker's  opinion  of  the  good  that  had  been  bestowed. 
Northcote  turned  to  the  negro  with  a  show  of  interest, 
not  for  the  man  so  much  as  for  the  boy. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  he  asked. 

"Down  Albany  way,  sah." 

"Are  you  free?" 

"  Yas,  sah.     I's  my  own  marster  now.     I's  free,  sah." 

"Are  you  telling  me  the  truth?" 

"Yas,  sah — fo'  de  Lawd,  sah." 

The  judge  was  silent  a  moment.  Martin's  heart 
beat  hard  and  fast. 

62 


Martin    Brook 

"Go  up  to  ni3T  house  and  ask  for  Eph  Larrabee,  the 
gardener,  He  will  give  you  something  to  eat  and  a 
place  to  sleep,  for  to-night,  at  least/' 

The  negro  bowed  first  to  the  judge,  then  more  lowly 
to  Martin,  as  he  went  out  and  started  towards  Elm- 
hurst. 

"My  boy/'  Judge  Northcote  remarked,  "it  will  be 
quite  as  well  for  you  to  be  less  emotional." 

"I  didn't  mean  any  harm,  sir,"  Martin  replied. 

"  It  isn't  what  we  mean,  but  what  we  do,  that  deter- 
mines our  legal  conduct.  Our  thoughts  are  our  own; 
our  actions  belong  to  the  public." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  Martin  said.  "I  shall  try  to  re- 
member the  lesson." 

He  returned  to  the  office,  wondering  what  the  out- 
come would  be. 

Enoch  had  no  difficult}^  in  finding  Larrabee;  and  it 
transpired,  as  was  most  likely  when  Eph's  convenience 
was  consulted,  that  there  was  work  he  could  do— a  cor- 
ner he  could  fill  in  the  Elmhurst  service,  where  there 
was,  indeed,  "always  room  for  one  more." 

The  man  became  the  doer  of  unconsidered  odds  and 
ends  of  work.  He  was  always  just  within  call,  as  he  had 
been  in  his  slave  days.  He  did  the  right  thing,  and  did 
it  well,  especially  about  the  house,  where  he  appeared 
to  be  more  familiar  with  in-door  than  with  out-door 
duties.  And  so,  ready  at  any  moment  to  assist  the 
mistress,  he  assumed  a  place  among  the  house-servants. 
No  one  appeared  to  claim  him  as  a  runaway — no  men- 
tion of  the  past  was  ever  made  by  him.  Judge  North- 
cote did  not  allude  to  his  being  there,  or  seem  to  carry  a 
single  thought  of  him. 

For  a  few  weeks  there  lingered  in  Martin's  mind  a 
feeling  that  perhaps  he  ought  to  have  told  the  judge  of 
Enoch's  admission.  In  time,  however,  since  no  question 
was  raised,  this  thought  was  finally  dismissed. 

63 


Martin    Brook 

Indeed,  so  minor  a  matter  as  this  addition  to  the  ret- 
inue of  Elmhurst  was  not  important  enough  to  cause 
comment  about  the  place ;  but  Dr.  Whittaker  met  Mar- 
tin, soon  after  Enoch's  appearance,  and  said : 

"  I  want  to  thank  you,  my  boy,  for  helping  Alary  out 
of  what  might  have  been  a  rather  annoying  incident. 
I  always  try  to  keep  those  poor  devils  out  of  sight,  but 
this  man  Enoch  is  certainly  a  sharp  and  bold  one.  I 
sometimes  help  to  push  these  fugitives  on  to  Canada, 
and  he  must  have  heard  of  my  former  actions.  How  is 
he  coming  on?" 

"Very  well,"  Martin  said. 

"  Does  Judge  Northcote  ever  allude  to  him?" 

"  No ;  Enoch  seemed  that  day  to  convince  Air.  North- 
cote of  his  freedom.  Sometimes  I  fanc}T  that  he  let  him- 
self be  easily  convinced." 

"  Possibly.  I  half  suspect  the  judge  of  being  broader 
at  heart  than  he  likes  us  to  believe  he  is.  You  know  he 
manumitted  the  slaves  on  his  mother's  estate  long  before 
our  own  laws  were  changed." 

"Yes,  but  I  blame  myself  for  keeping  this  secret," 
Martin  said,  gravely.  "  I  may  do  wrong  in  not  telling 
the  judge,  but  I  know  that  Mrs.  Wright  likes  the  man, 
and  he  is  really  useful." 

"I  wouldn't  let  that  secret  trouble  me,  my  boy,"  the 
doctor  said.  "  I  can  afford  to  stab  my  conscience  a  bit 
in  a  good  cause.     It's  like  surgery. " 

"  I  should  hate  to  do  anything  to  harm  Enoch,"  Mar- 
tin said ;  "  but  you  are  aware  how  much  I  respect  the 
judge.    Enoch  confessed  to  me  that  he  was  a  fugitive — " 

"Follow  my  advice,"  the  doctor  interposed,  "and  let 
some  one  else  do  the  meanness  of  exposing  the  man, 
if  it  must  be  done.  For  Mary's  sake,  and  for  what  she 
induced  you  to  do,  I'll  stand  between  you  and  any  pos- 
sible misunderstanding  with  the  judge." 

"Thank  you,  doctor,"  Martin  said.     "You  are  al- 

64 


Martin    Brook 

ways  very  kind  to  me,  and  so  is  Mary.  She  helps  me 
in  my  studies,  and  she  is — if  you  won't  object  to  my 
saying  it — she  is  like  a  sister — the  only  sister  I  have 
ever  known." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  sharply.     "You'll  never 
find  a  better  one,"  he  said,  turning  away. 
E 


Chapter  VII 

DURING  the  five  years  that  elapsed  between  the 
coming  of  Enoch  and  the  determining  of  Martin's  stand- 
ing with  the  judge,  three  incidents  occurred  that  had  a 
fateful  bearing  on  his  career. 

The  triumph  over  the  butcher's  boy  had  settled  at 
once  and  permanently  his  right  to  leadership  among 
the  boys,  and  had  given  him  a  position  of  authority 
in  their  sports. 

Because  of  this,  one  Saturday  afternoon,  when  nearly 
every  boy  in  Sandy  Hill  was  down  by  the  river  enjoying 
a  holiday,  Martin,  still  in  his  teens,  had  taken  a  little 
fellow  under  his  protection  and  was  teaching  him  to 
swim.  He  had  just  guided  his  pupil  to  shore  and  was 
standing  on  the  bank,  when  Sidney  Graham  came  along, 
with  cane  poised  daintily  between  his  fingers. 

"Hi,  Sid!"  yelled  the  boys  who  were  splashing  in 
the  stream.  "  Pull  off  them  pretty  duds  and  come  out 
here!" 

Graham  walked  carefully  to  the  edge  of  the  diving- 
hole,  avoiding  the  soiling  of  his  boots,  and  raised  his 
eye-glass.  He  surveyed  Martin  with  deliberate  off  en- 
si  ven  ess. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  drawled.  "I'm  not  swimming 
to-da3T — with  printer  bo3Ts." 

"  Umph ! "  snorted  the  urchin  at  Martin's  side.  " Mar- 
tin Brook's  as  good  as  you  be." 

Graham  stepped  quickly  to  the  boy  and  switched 
him  smartly  on  the  bare  legs. 

66 


Martin    Brook 

"111  teach  you  to  be  civil  and — " 

But  before  he  could  finish  the  sentence,  Martin  caught 
him — cane,  eye-glass,  and  hat — and  with  a  swinging 
toss  flung  him  head-foremost  into  the  river. 

Then,  like  a  flash,  he  dived  into  the  hole,  seized  the 
strangling  offender,  and  brought  him  safely  to  land, 
while  the  polished  beaver  hat  went  spinning  down  the 
stream,  and  the  cane  with  its  eye-glass  sank  to  the 
bottom. 

A  shout  rang  up  from  the  group  of  swimmers.  One 
boy  grabbed  the  soaked  hat  and  put  it  on  his  head. 
Another  dived  and  recovered  the  cane,  and,  coming 
to  the  surface,  treaded  water,  holding  the  eye-glass 
to  his  eye.  The  rest  of  the  boys  pounded  and  splashed 
the  water  in  their  glee,  bursting  into  the  taunting 
chorus : 

"  Dandy,  dancly  !    He's  so  handy! 
Take  him  home  and  feed  him  candy!" 

Graham,  absurd  in  his  helpless  anger,  stood  for  a 
moment  on  the  bank,  watching  the  boys  in  their  noisy 
contest  for  his  hat  and  cane,  and  then,  turning  on 
Martin  with  an  oath,  cried : 

"I'll  pay  you  for  this!" 

''Oh,  you're  welcome  to  it,"  Martin  said.  But  if 
he  had  known  of  the  hatred  he  had  created  in  Graham's 
heart,  that  reply  would  have  been  left  unuttered. 

His  day's  pleasure  was  spoiled.  He  was  depressed 
by  the  incident,  and  went  home  feeling  out  of  sorts  with 
himself  and  the  world.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  read- 
ing. He  decided  on  a  tramp  through  the  woods — a 
tramp  with  Enoch;  that  was  the  very  thing  to  restore 
good-humor.  Enoch's  cheery  spirit  seemed  always  to 
be  on  speaking  terms  with  nature,  and  he  joined  Mar- 
tin with  heartiest  accord. 

"I  know  whar  days  some  big  bass,  Marse  Martin," 
he  said,  bringing  out  his  fishing  rods  and  lines. 

67 


Martin    Brook 

The  place  they  sought  was  a  deserted  saw-mill  that 
stood  on  the  north  bank  of  the  river,  just  under  the  east 
brow  of  a  rocky  point  that  projected  into  the  Hudson, 
where  the  waters  rushed  through  an  abandoned  and 
rotting  flume,  rejoining  the  main  stream  midway  of 
the  S-shaped  bend,  in  a  deep  pool.  Towards  the  shore- 
side,  where  a  back-water  eddy  was  created  by  the  flow, 
was  a  deep  basin  that  had  once  been  used  as  a  booming- 
place  for  logs,  and  just  at  the  inner  edge  of  the  white- 
flecked,  roaring  junction  of  flume  and  river  Enoch  had 
"reckoned  to  fin'  dem  fish/' 

The  north  bank  of  the  river  rose  steeply  to  the  height 
of  perhaps  a  hundred  feet.  In  the  early  lumbering 
days  this  declivity  from  the  table-land  above  was  used 
as  a  rollway,  from  which  temporary  skidding-ground 
the  logs  were  plunged  into  the  waters  below  and  held 
in  check  by  the  boom  until  they  could  be  sawed  into 
lumber  in  the  mill. 

When  Martin  and  Enoch  arrived  there  all  was  silent 
on  the  hill-side,  except  for  the  twitter  of  birds  in  the 
dense  undergrowth  of  bushes  or  in  the  woods  at  either 
side  of  the  worn-out  rollway.  The  dark  green  of  the 
spruce  and  hemlocks  was  toned  by  the  softer  shadings 
of  the  young  maples  in  their  summer  verdure.  Blue- 
jays  shrilled  their  signal  of  warning  as  a  rabbit  vaulted 
to  cover.  At  the  sky-line,  across  the  river,  on  the  black- 
ened stubs  of  pines,  a  convention  of  crows,  with  a  hun- 
dred delegates;  was  in  session,  rising  on  wing  to  caw 
applause  when  the  presiding  genius,  on  the  topmost 
branch,  gave  solemn  voice  to  some  wise  utterance  re- 
garding the  duty  of  mankind  to  crows. 

The  scene  aroused  in  Martin  a  keen  sense  of  joy, 
dispelling  all  annoyance,  as  he  clambered  down  the  hill 
and  stopped  on  the  plateau,  awaiting  Enoch's  instruc- 
tions. When  rods  and  lines  were  ready,  Enoch  started 
to  guide  Martin  down  the  bank  to  the  edge  of  the  pool. 

68 


Martin    Brook 

"Look  out!  Look  out,  Marse  Martin!"  Enoch  ex- 
claimed, as  the  lad  sprang  upon  a  log  at  the  edge  of 
the  lower  rollway.  "Ef  you  ain't  car'ful  yo'  get  yo' 
back  broke.  Dat  ole  log's  on  de  aige,  jes'  holdin'  dar 
by  'ims  teef." 

"Oh,  that's  been  there  forryears,"  Martin  said,  with 
boyish  contempt  for  danger.  "You  couldn't  stir  it 
with  a  pike-pole." 

He  hit  the  log  a  blow  with  his  heel.  It  started,  turned 
half-way  over,  and  settled  at  the  verge  of  the  bluff 
against  a  small  overhanging  root. 

"  I  guess  you're  right,  Enoch,"  he  said,  jumping  back. 
Then,  with  eagerness :  "  Let's  roll  it  down  and  see  it 
splash!" 

" No,  no!  You  scar  dem  fish,  sure.  Come  on,  Marse 
Martin.  Don't  cotch  yo'  toes  in  dem  bresh,"  he  cau- 
tioned, as  he  helped  the  boy  safely  down  to  the  narrow 
strip  of  sandy  bank  directly  under  the  rollway.  Martin 
cast  a  glance  upward.     The  old  log  was  still  in  its  place. 

The  river-bed  deepened  abruptly  at  this  point.  A 
foot  or  two  of  sandy  beach ;  a  green  slippery  shelf,  and 
then  a  sudden  plunge  down  to  the  basin. 

"Let  me  catch  the  bait,"  Martin  said,  impatiently, 
as  Enoch  waded  into  the  shallows  and  turned  the  loose 
stones. 

"No,  Marse  Martin,  you  stay  whar  you  is.  Dis 
ain't  no  place  fo'  you.  Dar's  one!  I  cotched  'im!" 
Enoch  cried,  seizing  a  crawfish. 

"Oh,  come,"  Martin  said,  petulantly,  "you've  got 
enough  to  start.     Let  me  have  that  one." 

"In  jes'  a  minute.     Let  me  cotch  dis  one." 

Enoch  stooped  again,  his  back  towards  the  bank. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  his  alert  senses  an  ominous, 
crunching  noise.  He  straightened  up  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder. 

The  log  was  rolling  down  upon  them. 

69 


Martin    Brook 

In  that  flashing  glance  he  realized  the  peril  to  Martin, 
sitting  unconscious  of  danger. 

At  the  same  moment,  Martin  noticed  Enoch's  look, 
and  turned  his  face  upwards.  He  saw  the  log  coming 
down  the  bank.  He  tried  to  rise.  His  feet  slipped 
on  the  slimy  stones. 

"Enoch!"  he  screamed,  and  reeled  dizzily. 

Enoch  wheeled  and  caught  him  as  he  lunged,  lifted 
him,  poised  him  at  arms '-height,  and  flung  him  back- 
ward, out  into  the  deep  water  of  the  pool. 

The  log  came  grinding,  crashing  on.  It  dashed 
upon  the  rock  where  Martin  had  been  sitting,  careened, 
swerved  from  its  course,  and  bounded  out,  striking 
Enoch,  with  spent  force,  hurling  him  sideways  to  the 
ledge,  and  dipped  end  downward  into  the  stream. 

A  few  strong  strokes,  and  Martin  clambered  on  the 
]edge,  where  Enoch  lay  half  stunned. 

"Enoch!  Dear  old  Enoch!"  he  cried,  dragging 
the  negro  to  the  sandy  beach 

The  man  sat  up,  dazed  and  weak,  while  Martin  hug- 
ged him  in  the  stress  of  his  emotion. 

"I  thought  you  were  dead!     You  saved   my  life!" 

"Pshaw,  honey  chile!  V  libbin',  thank  Gawd!" 
he  said,  as  he  limped  about  and  tried  his  arms  and  legs. 
"Takes  a  heap  to  kill  dis  ole  man.  Ain't  quite  suah 
Fs  all  heah  yit.  I  reckon  we  bettah  be  totin'  dat  fish- 
pole  home.  Mightv  sorry  de  fishin's  spoiled  fo'  }tou, 
chile!" 

The  more  Martin  thought  of  this  incident  at  the 
old  mill,  the  clearer  it  appeared  to  his  mind  that  Enoch 
had,  indeed,  saved  him  from  peril  at  the  hazard  of 
his  own  life.  But  Enoch's  natural  reticence,  and  Alar- 
tin's  reluctance  to  speak  of  what  seemed  to  him  to  be 
a  stupid  adventure,  had  kept  them  both  from  making 
the  matter  public.     It  was  not  until  a  week  or  two  had 

70 


Martin    Brook 

passed  that  he  chanced  to  allude  to  the  scene  in  Mary's 
presence. 

"  What!"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  growing  pale,  "  the 
log  actually  hit  the  rock  you  were  sitting  on?  Why, 
Enoch  really  saved  your  life!" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "I  believe  I  do  owe  him  about 
all  my  life  is  worth.  But  don't  get  frightened  at  past 
dangers,  Mary,"  he  added,  laughingly.  "You  look 
as  pale  as  a  ghost  " 

"It  might  have  been  a  very  serious  accident,  Mar- 
tin," she  said;  and  from  that  day,  for  some  reason 
she  did  not  explain,  she  showed  a  more  kindly  interest 
in  Enoch  than  she  had  ever  manifested  before.  Nat- 
urally, she  repeated  the  story  to  Mrs.  Wright;  and  so, 
in  the  course  of  time,  it  reached  the  ears  of  the  judge. 
He,  however,  dismissed  the  subject,  with  a  simple  cau- 
tion to  Martin  against  taking  too  great  risks  in  his 
sports. 

But  between  Martin  and  Enoch,  as  if  suggested 
by  Mary's  quiet  regard,  there  grew  a  stronger  bond 
of  friendship;  and  before  many  weeks  had  elapsed, 
Martin  was  pleased  to  notice  that  Judge  Northcote 
had  shown  a  tacit  appreciation  of  Enoch's  conduct 
and  bravery  by  bringing  him  up-stairs,  as  his  own 
body-servant. 

The  judge's  movements  were  always  deliberate; 
and,  moreover,  Martin  knew  that  his  benefactor  dep- 
recated any  allusion  to  an  action  which,  like  this  of 
the  advancement  of  Enoch,  was  suggestive  of  senti- 
ment or  emotion.  He,  therefore,  made  no  comment 
on  the  change,  in  the  judge's  hearing,  and  restricted 
his  pleasure  to  a  handshake  with  Enoch  in  the  privacy 
of  the  corridor  outside  the  judge's  door. 

It  was  not  a  difficult  matter  for  the  judge  to  accept 
Enoch  in  this  new  capacity.  Accustomed  in  early 
life  to  the  services  of  negro  servants,  and  having  an 

71 


Martin    Brook 

inherited  liking  for  the  race  in  this  way,  he  enjoyed 
having  the  man  about  him.  It  was  plain  that  Enoch 
had  never  been  a  field-hand;  but  if  the  judge  at  first 
entertained  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  regarding  his  former 
condition,  the  lapse  of  time  effected  the  same  change  in 
the  master's  mind  as  in  Martin's. 

Mr.  Northcote's  manner  towards  Enoch,  when  the 
new  servant  showed  his  fitness  for  the  place,  effectually 
silenced  all  questions  below  stairs.  In  his  livery  of 
blue  coat  with  brass  buttons  and  white  waistcoat, 
Enoch  became  an  ideal  attendant  on  the  judge. 

It  may  have  been  that  Enoch's  love  and  admiration 
for  Martin,  which  he  was  constantly  showing  in  the 
judge's  presence ;  or  it  may  have  been  that  Mr.  North- 
cote's  closer  observation  of  Martin's  evident  progress 
and  intrinsic  worth,  at  this  period,  when  he  had  just 
turned  eighteen,  wrought  another  change  for  his  ad- 
vancement. Whatever  the  immediate  cause,  it  is  true 
that  now  occurred  an  event  which  not  only  benefited 
him,  but  delighted  Mrs.  Wright. 

The  judge  entered  the  dining  -  room  one  day  with 
more  than  his  accustomed  suavity.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  place  was  permeated  with  his  graciousness. 
Every  piece  of  the  Sheraton  mahogany — that  rare  old 
mahogany  which  the  Fairfields  had  brought  from  Eng- 
land in  the  long  ago — contributed  to  the  grace  of  the 
judge's  manner  and  lent  the  polish  of  its  surface  to 
reflect  the  genial  humor  of  his  mood. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  over  his  coffee,  "I  am  of  the 
opinion  that  Martin  is  now  old  enough  to  enjo}T  a  some- 
what broader  social  advantage.  For  my  own  sake, 
he  should  give  proper  heed  to  his  manners  as  he  be- 
comes more  intimately  associated  with  me.  A  seat  at 
our  table  would  be  beneficial  to  him." 

"I  shall  like  that,  I  am  sure,"  Mrs.  Wright  answered, 
a  new  light  in  her  eyes.    "And,  if  you  do  not  object, 

72 


Martin    Brook 

I  think  we  might  make  him  more  comfortable  by  fitting 
up  a  room  for  him  on  our  floor.  His  room  down-stairs 
is  very  small,  and  the  south  guest-chambers  are  seldom 
used." 

"The  arrangements  of  the  household,  Margaret,  are 
in  your  hands/'  the  judge  replied. 

Mrs.  Wright  smiled  her  thanks. 

"I  have  also  decided/'  the  judge  continued,  "to 
confer  a  small  salary  on  him,  contrary  to  custom,  that 
he  may  begin  to  feel  a  greater  degree  of  personal  in- 
dependence. I  shall  encourage  him  to  talk  at  table, 
and  during  the  long  winter  evenings,  I  shall  invite  him 
to  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  me  in  the  library.  He 
seems  to  be  deficient  in  ease  of  manner." 

"I  know,  brother,  how  the  dear  boy  suffers  from 
bashfulness.  What  you  are  doing  now  is  the  greatest 
kindness  you  have  shown  him  since  you  brought  him 
here." 

But,  long  after  this  change  was  made,  and  Martin 
became  one  of  the  family  group,  the  practice  of  these 
lessons  in  deportment  was  most  difficult.  His  first 
attempts  at  self-forgetfulness  were  sorry  failures.  For 
though  he  craved  society,  and  was  welcomed  by  the  young 
people  of  the  village,  he  was  conscious  that  he  blushed 
so  easily  and  hated  himself  so  intensely  for  it,  that  he 
usually  declined  invitations  to  their  little  parties;  and, 
with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Wright,  there  was  only  one 
of  the  opposite  sex  with  whom  he  felt  at  ease.  Mary 
Whittaker  always  seemed  to  understand  him.  He  for- 
got his  awkwardness  in  her  presence,  and  was  natural 
and  unembarrassed. 

The  improvement  in  Martin's  prospects  were  quickly 
made  known  in  so  small  a  place.  The  townspeople 
soon  began  to  discuss  the  evident  alteration  in  Judge 
Northcote's  bearing  towards  the  favored  boy.  The 
gentle  gossips,  any  one  of  whom  would  have  been  de- 

73 


Martin    Brook 

lighted  to  see  some  sign  of  interest  in  herself,  and  sigh- 
ing at  the  judge's  unaccountable  indifference  to  societ3T, 
tried  to  forecast  a  probable  advancement  in  Martin's 
worldly  affairs.  For  if  these  rumors  proved  true,  Martin 
was  destined,  in  public  opinion,  to  be  even  more  fort- 
unate than  Sidney  Graham,  who  was  now  no  longer 
in  Sandy  Hill,  but  was  attending  college  at  old  Union. 
The  judge  had  taken  Mr.  Coulter  somewhat  into  his 
confidence  about  this  matter,  and  Mrs.  Coulter  grew 
confidential  in  those  quiet  little  talks  with  Mrs.  Wright, 
which  her  position  permitted  her  to  enjo3T  at  the  great 
house.  From  the  subject  of  feminine  fashions — from 
the  question  of  poke-bonnets,  neck-ruffs  ,'antf  plum%, 
Mrs.  Coulter  gradually  led  up  to  the  demands  of  the 
village  society  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Wright/'  she  pleaded,  "I  really  wish 
you  could  induce  Mr.  Martin  to  accept  ni3T  invitation 
to  the  rectory  to-morrow  evening.  WTe  shall  have  a 
few  of  the  young  people  there,  to  meet  my  niece,  Helen 
Stafford.  You  remember  I  told  you  she  was  coming 
to  make  us  a  visit.  She  is  the  only  child  of  my  brother 
in  Albany.  I  know  you  will  like  and  admire  the  sweet 
girl/' 

"  I  am  sure  I  will,  and  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  influence 
Martin.     He  is  too  much  alone  for  his  own  good." 

But  Martin  had  made  up  his  mind,  on  receiving  this 
invitation,  that  he  would  not  go,  and  Mrs.  Wright  called 
Mary  to  her  assistance  in  arguing  the  cause. 

"You  know,  Martin/'  Alary  urged,  "how  few  boys 
there  are  in  the  village,  and  how  much  they  count  on 
you/' 

"But  I  hate  society/'  he  pleaded. 

"Do  you  hate  me?"  she  asked,  smilinghT.  "I  shall 
be  there." 

"Oh,  that's  different;  you  are  not  society — you  are 
just  the  nicest  girl  in  the  world.    You're  not  a  bit  like 

74 


Martin    Brook 

those  giggling  girls  who  always  seem  to  be  laughing 
at  my  blunders/' 

She  looked  into  his  face  without  smiling.  "Then 
go  to  oblige  me/'  she  said. 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  with  his 
hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  frowning  over  the  pros- 
pect of  having  to  meet  a  stranger.  Mary  w£s  sitting 
where  the  sunlight  fell  full  on  her,  tinting  her  soft  brown 
hair  with  a  golden  hue.  Her  large  hazel  eyes,  lifted 
frankly  to  his,  seemed  for  the  moment  to  catch  the 
color  of  the  deep  blue  of  the  summer  sky.  Martin  had 
never  thought  of  her  appearance  before,  but  now  she 
held  him  as  by  a  spell — not  by  her  beauty,  but  by  the 
purity  of  her  soul.  He  was  not,  however,  indifferent 
to  the  charm  of  her  presence,  as  she  sat  there  in  her 
neat  dress  of  brown,  with  its  puffed  sleeves,  tight  below 
the  shapely  elbow;  the  snowy  ruff  around  her  neck; 
the  flaring  skirt,  with  its  deep  border  of  flouncing,  and 
her  big  plumed  hat. 

"IH  do  anything  to  please  you,  Mary/'  he  said, 
impulsively. 

"  That's  a  promise.  I  shall  expect  you  to  call  for  me  I" 
she  exclaimed,  and  left  him  before  he  could  retract  or 
explain  his  words. 

He  saw  that  Mrs.  Wright  was  evidently  so  pleased 
to  find  that  he  had  decided  to  go,  that  he  felt  obliged  to 
keep  faith  with  Mary.  He  was  on  hand  at  the  appointed 
time,  but  she  was  detained  by  her  father,  who  had  just 
returned  from  a  long  ride,  tired  and  hungry.  Martin 
could  feel  his  courage  ooze  away  as  he  sat  waiting  for 
her  to  get  the  doctor's  supper;  and  when  at  last  they 
entered  the  rectory,  he  was  in  a  state  of  nervous  dread. 

Mary  apologized  for  their  late  coming,  but  Mrs. 
Coulter  said  to  her,  "  I  am  glad  you  are  come,  dear 
child,  even  if  you  are  late." 

The  girls  were  already  on  pleasant  terms.     Helen 

75 


Martin    Brook 

greeted  Mary  with  effusion.  "  I  am  so  glad.  I  was 
beginning  to  think  you  weren't  coming/'  she  said, 
and  looked  past  her  as  Mrs.  Coulter  brought  Martin 
through  the  chattering  crowd. 

"Helen/'  she  said,  "this  is  Martin  Brook.  Martin, 
my  niece,  Miss  Helen  Stafford. " 

He  bowed  stiffly,  his  cheeks  aflame,  his  hand  held 
awkwardly  forward. 

"  I've  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Brook,"  Helen  said,  smilingly, 
taking  his  hand  lightly.  "Aunty  has  told  me  about 
beautiful  Elmhurst.  Judge  Northcote  is  so  distin- 
guished.    You  intend  to  study  the  law?" 

A  thrill  ran  through  Martin  at  the  touch  of  her 
hand.  He  looked  gravely  at  the  girl.  The  flatter- 
ing note  in  her  cooing  voice  awakened  a  new  idea.  His 
tongue  was  dry,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  say  some- 
thing. 

"  No,  not  the  law.  I  am  learning  to  be  a  printer," 
he  said. 

"  A  printer?"  There  was  a  slight  lifting  of  the  dark 
brows. 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  annoyed  at  what  seemed  a  need 
to  defend  his  trade. 

Helen  turned  to  greet  another  guest.  Martin  was 
given  a  moment  in  which  to  study  her.  He  was  con- 
scious of  the  indefinable  charm  of  her  perfect  self-pos- 
session. He  noted  the  full  round  lines  of  her  face  and 
the  contour  of  her  throat;  the  dark  skin  tinged  with 
the  first  flush  of  health  in  youth ;  the  laughing  mouth 
that  arched  and  drew  down  in  a  curve  at  the  corners; 
the  short,  even,  creamlike  teeth;  the  small,  transparent 
ears,  slightly  pointed  at  the  top  and  set  close  to  the 
head,  half  hidden  in  a  mass  of  waving  blue-black  hair. 
His  heart  beat  quickly.  He  was  sure  he  had  never 
seen  so  charming  a  girl.  Her  filmy  gown  of  inex- 
pressible colorings,   her  soft  arms  seen  through  the 

76 


Martin    Brook 

gauze,  her  dainty  slippers  crossed  with  white  ribbons, 
seemed  like  a  vision. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Martin  stood  breathing 
the  atmosphere  of  love. 

The  delicate  sting  of  her  inquiry  was  gone  when 
she  once  more  turned  her  dark,  liquid  eyes  on  him  and 
smiled.  He  did  not  comprehend  that  she  was  merely 
measuring  the  value  of  another  conquest,  but  by  some 
strange  evidence  of  the  mind,  which  was  beyond  his 
power  of  reasoning,  he  resented  it.  She  seemed  a 
woman  in  wisdom;  she  made  him  feel  his  youthful- 
ness,  beyond  the  real  difference  in  their  years. 

"  And  you  like  the  work?"  she  said,  as  though  no 
interruption  had  broken  in  on  their  conversation.  She 
was  looking  him  over;  his  undisguised  admiration 
flattered  and  amused  her.  She  lifted  her  perfumed 
fan  and  toyed  with  it. 

"Yes,"  Martin  resumed,  earnestly,  as  Mary  passed 
on,  "  the  work  is  to  my  liking,  and,  as  you  remarked, 
the  judge  is  a  distinguished  man.  We  all  hold  him 
in  the  highest  respect."  He  was  amazed  at  his  own 
fluency  and  self-reliance.  The  spirit  of  the  girl,  so 
peculiarly  exhilarating,  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 
He  forgot  his  awkwardness,  and  stepped  nearer  to 
her,  but  became  aware  that  she  was  looking  beyond 
him.  She  moved  aside  to  greet  a  new  arrival.  He 
turned  around.     Sidney  Graham  was  approaching. 

"Why,  Mr.  Graham!"  Helen  exclaimed,  cordially, 
holding  out  her  hand  beyond  Martin,  who  withdrew 
a  step  as  Sidney  passed  him  with  a  careless  nod.  "  I 
thought  you  were  at  college,  digging  away  among 
the  Greek  ruins."  Graham  bent  low,  and  carried  her 
finger-tips  to  his  lips,  holding  her  hand  for  a  moment. 

"I  prefer  to  study  Helen's  beauties  in  the  original," 
he  said. 

One  of  the  village  girls  spoke  to  Martin,  but  he  scarce- 

77 


Martin    Brook 

ly  noticed  her.     He   heard  Helen   say  reprovingly  to 
Graham : 

"  We  haven't  met  since  the  New  Year's  ball  at  Al- 
bany. That  does  not  quite  agree  with  your  assertion 
of  interest  in  me." 

"  But  as  soon  as  I  learned  from  my  mother  that  3rou 
were  here/'  Graham  replied,  "  I  came  up  solely  to  see 
you." 

"That  is  not  complimentary  to  your  mother/'  Helen 
said,  with  a  smile. 

"  Can  you  blame  me  for  thinking  first  of  you?"  he 
asked.  "Come  and  sing  for  me."  He  led  her  from 
the  group,  her  hand  resting  daintily  on  his  high-held 
palm,  and  seated  her  at  the  harpsichord,  bending  over 
her  as  he  turned  the  music  while  she  sang. 

Martin  crossed  the  room  to  where  Mary  was  seated. 
"  Come,  Mary.     Let's  go  home,"  he  said. 
"Why,  Martin,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "we  can't 
go  yet     You  must   wait   until   you   say   good-night. 
Besides,  the  refreshments  are  being  served." 

As  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Coulter  came  to  them.  "  Now, 
Mary,  and  Martin,  there  are  places  at  the  table  for  you. 
Come  right  out."  She  led  them  into  the  dining-room; 
and  while  they  were  seated  there,  Mary  tried  in  vain 
to  draw  him  into  conversation. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  home  so  soon?"  she  asked. 
"Aren't  3^ou  enjoving  yourself?" 
"No,"  he  said. 

She  studied  his  face,  puzzled  to  understand  his  mood. 
Could  it  be  that  this  unlooked-for  meeting  with  Sidney 
Graham  had  caused  the  sudden  alteration  in  manner; 
or — was  it  the  stranger  who  had  disturbed  him?  He 
had  seemed  very  much  interested  in  her  only  a  mo- 
ment before,  and  now  he  was  anxious  to  go. 

In  spite  of  Mary's  quiet  pleas,  they  were  the  first  to  say 
good-night.     She  made  no  further  effort  to  detain  him. 

78 


Martin    Brook 

"  We  hope  to  see  you  soon,  Mr.  Brook/'  Mrs.  Coulter 
said,  warmly.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  were  able  to  come 
to-night.  You  mustn't  let  your  studies  occupy  all 
your  time." 

"I  shall  be  most  happy  to  call/'  he  said,  earnestly, 
lingering  a  moment  over  Helen's  hand.  "  I  hope  you 
will  like  Sandy  Hill" 

"I  am  charmed  with  its  people,  at  all  events,"  she 
said,  slipping  her  arm  about  Mary's  waist.  "Good- 
night, dear." 

Martin  followed  Mary  out  into  the  hall,  but  when 
she  went  up-stairs  for  her  bonnet,  he  edged  his  way 
back  to  Helen. 

"  I  hope  you  will  stay  long  enough  to  see  some  of  our 
notable  places.  Have  you  ever  seen  the  Jane  McCrea 
tree?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  should  like  to." 

"  They  are  going  to  hold  the  Fourth  of  July  picnic  at 
that  spot,"  Martin  said,  "and  I  hope  that  Mrs.  Coulter 
will  be  willing  to  go." 

Mary  came  down  the  stairs  with  her  bonnet  on.  He 
could  only  add  another  hurried  good-night,  and  catch 
Helen's  words : 

"  I'm  sure  it  would  be  delightful  to  have  her  take  me." 

He  walked  by  Mary's  side  the  short  distance  between 
the  houses,  without  speaking. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Martin?"  Mary  asked. 

"  Why,  nothing,  Mary,"  he  replied. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Stafford?"  she  said. 

"I  think  she's  a  very  nice  girl,"  he  returned,  with 
assumed  indifference.     "W7hat  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"  She  had  a  very  pretty  dress,  and  she  does  her  hair 
becomingly." 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  questioningly. 

"  I  thought  her  eyes  were  her  chief  charm,"  he  said. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment. 

79 


Martin    Brook 

"  I  can't  see  what  Miss  Stafford  can  find  to  admire  in 
that  fellow  Graham/'  he  exclaimed,  testily. 

"I  understand  that  Miss  Stafford's  father  is  a  dip- 
lomat/' she  remarked. 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  Graham?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  nothing.  Good-night/'  she  said,  opening 
the  door. 

"Good-night,  Mary,"  he  said,  and  walked  briskly 
home. 

She  stopped  on  the  porch  to  watch  him  as  he  went 
along  the  path  and  out  into  the  street.  "  Yes,  it  was  the 
girl,"  she  said,  and  entered  the  house. 

When  at  breakfast  Mrs.  Wright  announced  that  Mrs. 
Coulter  and  Miss  Stafford  would  take  tea  with  her  three 
days  hence,  Martin  remarked,  as  he  crumbled  his  roll : 
"  I  was  very  much  pleased  with  Miss  Stafford." 

Mrs.  Wright  smiled. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  take  interest  in  people,  Martin," 
she  said.  "  You  reallv  ought  to  go  out  more  frequently. 
So  you  liked  Miss  Stafford?" 

"  Yes.     She  is  a  very  pleasant  young  lady." 

The  judge  caught  the  name.  "Miss  Stafford?"  he 
said.  "Why,  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  my 
old  friend  Colonel  Stafford.  He  expressed  the  hope  that 
you  would  find  opportunit}7  to  meet  his  daughter,  Mar- 
garet. He  says  she  is  at  the  rectory  visiting  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Coulter." 

"We  have  already  met  her,"  Mrs.  Wright  remarked, 
looking  at  Martin. 

"Oh,  have  you?"  the  judge  said,  turning  towards 
Martin.  He  saw  that  the  young  man's  face  was  crim- 
son. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wright,  "Martin  attended  a  little 
party  last  night,  and  I  was  there  in  the  morning  and 
invited  them  to  tea  with  me  next  Friday.  You  will 
be  one  of  us?" 

80 


Martin    Brook 

"If  you  desire  it,"  the  judge  assented. 

"  I  certainly  do;  and,  Martin,  we  will  have  Mary  and 
some  of  the  young  people,  if  you  like." 

"  I  think  small  companies  are  pleasanter,  don't  you?" 
he  asked. 

"Very  well.  Then  we  will  ask  only  Mary."  And 
the  subject  was  dropped ;  but  Martin  began,  on  his  own 
account,  to  lay  plans  for  Miss  Stafford's  entertainment. 
That  afternoon  he  called  at  the  rectory  to  pay  his  re- 
spects and  broach  the  subject  of  the  Fourth  to  Mrs. 
Coulter. 

He  learned  that  Helen  was  gone — summoned  home 
by  a  messenger  from  her  mother,  who  was  ill.  But 
Mrs.  Coulter,  profuse  in  her  regrets,  did  not  learn  from 
Martin's  lips  how  keenly  he  felt  the  disappointment. 
He  said  nothing,  not  even  to  Mary,  and  became  more 
studious  and  exclusive  than  ever;  although  he  carried 
Helen's  image  in  his  mind,  suffering  tortures  at  the 
thought  of  his  stupidity  in  her  presence,  and  the  bright 
things  he  might  have  said  if  his  plans  could  have  been 
carried  out.  His  dislike  for  Graham  meanwhile  grew 
more  intense,  as  he  recalled  the  ease  with  which  the 
fellow  had  eclipsed  him  at  the  party,  and  yet  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  an  open  avowal  of  his  feelings. 

Before  he  had  summoned  courage  to  speak  there  were 
more  important  matters  than  a  boy's  first  love  to  en- 
gage the  attention  of  the  judge.  Looking  across  the 
newspaper  he  was  reading,  he  said  to  Martin  : 

"Well,  here  is  something  I  can  approve  of  at  last. 
President  Adams  has  made  an  admirable  choice  in  the 
matter  of  that  special  commissioner  to  England.  I 
know  Mr.  Stafford  will  be  judicious  and  incorruptible. 
Yes,  you  met  his  daughter  —  Mrs.  Coulter's  niece. 
Stafford  is  a  born  diplomat.  His  duties  in  this  com- 
plication will,  no  doubt,  keep  him  abroad  a  long  time. 
I  am  sure  that  the  experience  will  be  of  benefit  to  his 
F  81 


Martin    Brook 

family  and  a  pleasure  to  himself,  however  his  work 
ma}'  result  for  the  people/' 

"Abroad?  Mr.  Stafford?  They— will— he  will  be  ab- 
sent some  time?"  Martin  stammered. 

"  Necessarily/'  the  judge  replied.  "  They  sail  at  once, 
the  paper  sa\Ts/' 


Chapter  VIII 

THE  monotony  of  life  at  Sandy  Hill  was  not  inter- 
rupted for  several  months,  except  when  Martin  was 
taken  out  of  the  printing-office  and  given  a  desk  in  the 
sanctum,  there  to  become  more  intimately  associated 
with  the  judge  and  the  men  who  made  the  sanctum 
their  debating  ground.  Helen  Stafford's  personality 
gradually  faded  from  his  mind,  until  at  last  she  was 
but  an  idealized  memory. 

There  was,  however,  one  very  decided  break  in  the 
routine  of  Martin's  own  personal  affairs  when,  on  his 
nineteenth  birthday,  the  judge  said  to  him:  "You 
are  doing  well,  my  boy,  in  your  work,  but  I  wish  you  to 
have  a  clearer  impression  of  the  law.  Such  information 
will  be  of  great  service  to  you  as  a  political  writer.  Pos- 
sibly, some  day,  you  may  be  called  on  to  assume 
other  duties  than  these  in  my  little  office.  We  are  living 
in  agitated  times.  Cool  -  headed  thinkers  are  always 
in  request.  I  advise  that  you  study  the  law,  under  my 
direction.  It  will  make  up  partly  for  your  lack  of  a 
collegiate  course.  I  prefer  to  have  your  affairs '  so 
arranged  that,  in  any  event,  you  will  feel  properly 
equipped  for  action." 

"Your  wishes  are  always  my  law,"  Martin  replied. 

The  judge  undertook  at  once  to  train  Martin  in 
the  theory  and  the  practice  of  the  law.  He  devised 
debates  and  discussions,  and  drilled  his  pupil  in 
ponderous  oratory.  They  read  the  speeches  of  Clay 
and  Calhoun  aloud,   taking   part  in  opposition,   with 

83 


Martin    Brook 

original  digressions.  It  was  a  contest  of  wits,  in  which 
the  judge  was  sometimes  compelled  to  admit  defeat; 
for  Martin  proved  himself  an  adept  at  "thinking  on 
his  feet." 

The  work  was  proceeding  satisfactorily  when  Sidney 
Graham  returned  from  college.  Rumor  followed  him 
regarding  certain  escapades  resulting  in  his  suspension ; 
but  Judge  Northcote,  to  whom  gossip  was  an  offence, 
saw  in  the  young  man  a  kind  of  shrewdness  that  enter- 
tained him;  and  because  of  this  toleration  Graham 
was  frequently  at  the  Sentinel  office. 

Simultaneously  there  occurred  an  event  in  the  out- 
side world  which  profoundly  affected  partisans  of  all 
sections.  DeWitt  Clinton  died.  It  was  no  secret  that 
Judge  Northcote  had  opposed  the  Governor  in  several 
of  his  political  measures,  because  the  spirit  of  com- 
mercialism, fostered  by  Clinton's  policies,  was  dis- 
tasteful to  him.  Besides,  the  judge  was  ever  loyal 
to  his  friends,  and  chief  among  these  stood  Mr.  Tomp- 
kins. Although  those  antagonisms  were  now  buried 
in  the  grave,  the  judge's  reputation  for  consistency 
created  discussion  as  to  his  probable  comments  on  the 
services  of  the  great  Improver.  The  country  was  ring- 
ing with  praises  of  Clinton,  and  still  the  judge  re- 
mained silent. 

One  morning  Mr.  Northcote  found  an  anonymous 
letter  thrust  under  his  office  door.  It  contained  a  eulogy 
of  Clinton,  fair  in  tone,  but  strongly  approbative  of  his 
works.  It  was  written  in  a  hand  of  peculiar  style. 
The  eloquence  of  the  tribute  and  the  beauty  of  the 
diction  appealed  to  the  scholarly  man ;  but  the  secrecy 
of  its  authorship  piqued  him.  The  implied  aspersion 
on  his  own  sense  of  justice  to  the  dead  anno3Ted  him. 
Besides,  it  was  well  known  that  the  customs  of  jour- 
nalism demanded  that  the  name  of  the  writer  should 
be  imparted  to  the  editor;  and  the  longer  he  puzzled 

84 


Martin    Brook 

over  the  matter  the  more  he  was  determined  to  find 
out  who,  in  Sandy  Hill,  was  capable  of  doing  such 
excellent  literary  work. 

When  the  office  was  filled  with  his  friends,  he  brought 
the  paper  out  and  said. he  had  something  he  wished 
them  to  listen  to.  He  read  it  aloud,  scanning  each 
face  for  some  trace  of  self  -  consciousness,  but  none 
was  shown;  and  although  the  judge  asserted  that  he 
could  not  publish  the  article  unless  the  writer's  name 
was  revealed  to  him,  his  friends  declared  he  must  not 
consign  it,  on  that  account,  to  the  waste-basket. 

The  next  issue  of  the  Sentinel,  therefore,  contained 
this  article,  which  not  only  generously  reviewed  the 
record  of  the  dead  statesman,  but,  by  its  breadth  of 
prophecy,  awakened  interest  in  the  mysterious  writer. 

Again,  a  week  later,  a  second  letter  appeared,  crowd- 
ing its  way  under  the  office  door,  still  without  evidence 
of  its  origin.  But  the  theme  now  treated  was  the  par- 
tisan issue  of  the  tariff,  and  by  this  time  the  village 
was  thoroughly  aroused.  Public  sentiment  held  that 
the  man  who  could  write  such  essays  ought  surely 
to  place  himself  in  position  to  receive  the  commenda- 
tion of  his  fellow-citizens.  Yet  no  one  claimed  the  honor. 
While  the  judge  and  his  friends  were  still  discussing 
the  disputed  question  of  authorship,  Sidney  Graham 
joined  the  company  in  the  office,  and  sat  smiling  wisely, 
implying  he  could  if  he  would.     Martin  was  also  present. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  the  letters  would  create  so  much 
comment/'  Graham  observed,  placidly. 

Judge  Northcote  turned  to  him  in  surprise,  with  the 
point-blank  question:  "  Did  you  write  those  letters?" 

"Why,  judge,  really  I  do  not  wish  to  become  bored 
with  praise,  you  know ;  but  I  cannot  decline  that  which 
is  thrust  upon  me,"  he  said,  with  assumed  modesty. 
"  Yes,  I  wrote  the  articles." 

"Mr.  Graham,"  Martin  said,  looking  up  from  his 

85 


Martin    Brook 

desk  by  the  window,  in  amazement,  "if  you  are  the 
author  of  those  letters  it  is  easy'  to  prove  the  identit3\ 
The  handwriting  is  remarkably  peculiar.  Will  you 
oblige  me  by  writing  a  few  lines  of  this?"  He  spread 
the  last  copy  of  the  Sentinel  before  him,  pointing  to 
the  anonymous  article. 

"  1  don't  regard  myse'lf  under  any  obligations  to  com- 
ply with  such  a  request  from  3rou,"  Graham  said, 
coolly. 

"  Come,  come,  Graham,"  the  judge  remarked.  "  You 
must  either  comply  with  Martin's  request,  or  stand 
convicted  of  a  fear  to  do  so." 

'  I  consider  the  source,  judge,"  Graham  replied, 
with  assumed  indifference  "  If  3rou  had  questioned 
my  veracity — " 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  the  judge  said,  dryly. 

Graham  flushed,  but  checked  a  retort,  for  the  judge 
was  not  heeding  him.  He  saw  that  Northcote  was 
studying  Martin,  a  look  of  curiosity  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  infer  from  this,  Mr.  Brook,"  said  Graham,  haught- 
ily, "  that  you  are  audacious  enough  to  dispute  my 
word.  Do  you  assert  that  you  are  the  writer  of  those 
letters?" 

"I  make  no  assertion,"  said  Martin,  calmly.  "I 
merely  offer  3^ou  the  opportunity  to  prove  your  im- 
plied claim." 

"Implied  claim!"  said  Graham.  "I  could  prove 
my  statement  if  I  cared  to." 

"  I  have  not  sought  this  unpleasant  scene,"  Martin 
replied;  "  but  since  you  force  me  to  expose  you,  I  will 
do  so." 

Graham  rose  as  if  to  leave  the  room.  Martin  stop- 
ped him. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  insisted.  "  This  matter  has  gone 
too  far  to  be  left  unsettled.  I  will  copy  this  opening 
paragraph  and  lay  it  before  these  gentlemen,  along  with 

86 


Martin    Brook 

the  first  sheet  of  the  original  manuscript,  and  leave 
the  case  with  them/'  He  -sat  down  at  his  desk  and 
wrote  the  page,  without  referring  to  the  original.  He 
traced  the  letters  in  their  odd  form,  omitting  no  shad- 
ing or  point  of  punctuation.  Every  man  in  the  room 
watched  him  with  silent  eagerness.  He  scattered  sand 
over  the  wet  lines,  gently  shook  the  loose  grains  from 
the  paper,  and  handed  the  sheet  to  the  judge. 

"  A  perfect  copy,"  the  judge  assented,  warmly,  as 
he  passed  the  paper  to  Mr.  Coulter. 

Northcote  paused  a  moment.  Then:  "Martin,  are 
you  the  author  of  those  letters?" 

"  I  am,  sir,"  Martin  replied. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  judge,  rising  in  enthusiasm, 
"congratulate  me  on  having  so  able  an  assistant." 

The  men  gathered  about  Martin,  shaking  his  hand 
and  praising  him,  while  he  sought  to  avoid  such  a 
demonstration. 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  Graham  as  he  walked  tow- 
ards the  door.  "  I  presume  you  mean  an  assistant 
copyist,  judge.  It  is  well  to  conceal  one's  inconsist- 
ency of  opinion.  How  much  of  that  fulsome  eulogy  of 
your  late  antagonist  did  you  write?" 

Northcote  turned  upon  him  like  a  judge  passing 
sentence. 

"  You  have  assumed  an  honor  which  does  not  belong 
to  you,"  he  said;  "the  authorship  of  a  work  which  I 
believe  you  incapable  of  performing.  You  have  ut- 
tered a  deliberate  lie.  You  have  forfeited  the  right  to 
associate  with  gentlemen.  Your  remark  reflects  upon 
me,  as  well  as  on  this  young  man.  I  scorn  a  direct 
reply.  You  will,  hereafter,  sir,  show  the  truest  ap- 
preciation of  your  own  conduct  by  remaining  out  of 
my  office." 

"Indeed,"  said  Graham,  adjusting  his  scarf.  "You 
seem  to  imagine  that  you  are  a  gentleman/' 

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Martin    Brook 

Martin  wheeled  upon  him,  every  fibre  tense.  The 
judge  laid  a  hand  on  Martin's  arm. 

Graham  slowly  and  insolently  sauntered  out  of  the 
room. 

The  publication  of  these  articles  in  the  Sentinel 
established  Martin  in  the  small  world  of  Sandy  Hill. 
There  were  sceptics,  of  course,  who,  prompted  by  Sidney 
Graham,  professed  a  belief  that  Judge  Northcote  was 
the  author,  and  had  used  Martin  as  a  cloak  to  eulogistic 
words  of  Clinton  which  he  did  not  care  to  admit;  but 
the  judge  knew  the  truth.  He  cast  aside  his  wonted 
reserve  and  told  Mrs.  Wright  of  his  affectionate  regard 
for  Martin.  The  boy,  he  said,  was  worthy  to  become 
his  heir. 

This  avowal  was  received  by  her  with  a  mother's 
joy  at  the  success  of  a  son;  but,  at  the  judge's  order, 
the  decision  was  not  alluded  to  again  by  her. 

For  fully  three  years  the  people  of  Sand}7  Hill  were 
left  to  their  own  conjectures,  although  the  judge  no 
longer  attempted  to  conceal  his  pride  in  Martin.  But, 
with  this  exception,  there  was  no  material  change  in 
the  life  at  Elmhurst.  It  became  more  apparent  that 
there  was  harmony  of  tastes  between  the  judge  and 
his  protege;  and  that,  although  inherently  different 
in  nature,  they  were  alike  in  their  selection  of  studies. 
Neither  was  mathematical;  each  was  philosophical. 
Their  choice  of  reading  was  the  same — histor\T,  ethics, 
theology,  political  science  —  and  the  judge  continued 
to  foster  a  love  of  classical  literature  in  Martin  D37  in- 
viting him  to  read  aloud  in  the  library.  The  dormant 
geniality  in  Northcote's  mind  expanded  under  the 
protracted  task  of  reviving,  during  the  passing  years, 
his  own  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek  in  his  instruc- 
tion of  Martin,  who  was  quick  of  perception,  retentive 
and  sincere;  and  the  young  man's  increasing  mastery 

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Martin    Brook 

over  self  -  consciousness,  joined  with  his  emotional 
earnestness,  gave  promise  of  his  developing  into  a 
convincing  public  speaker. 

Notwithstanding  a  love  of  theological  discussion, 
Judge  Northcote  was  not  what  was  termed  a  "pious" 
man,  and  was  regarded  askance  by  the  orthodox 
churches,  outside  of  his  own  small  circle,  wherein  Mr. 
Coulter  was  the  shining  light.  For,  although  he  was 
not  a  communicant  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  he  prac- 
tically supported  that  denomination,  as  a  family  tradi- 
tion. He  spoke  of  all  religious  organizations  as  "a 
moral -police  necessity,"  and  on  the  question  of  the 
Trinity  he  was  wholly  at  sea. 

In  accordance  with  his  sense  of  social  obligation, 
the  judge  contributed  generously  and  impartially  to 
each  religious  society  in  the  village,  yet  avoided  those 
complications  which  might  compel  him  to  invite  any 
minister  to  his  home.  Towards  the  Methodists,  how- 
ever, he  held  an  especial  prejudice  of  dislike,  although 
he  disarmed  censure  by  avowing  this  feeling  to  be  purely 
a  prejudice — and  by  sending  a  larger  sum  in  support 
of  the  society  than  could  be  reasonably  expected,  as 
a  "peace  offering  to  a  despised  people." 

Every  time  a  Methodist  preacher  came  to  Sandy 
Hill  he  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  convert  the  judge.  These 
efforts  ended  always  in  the  same  manner — a  polite  re- 
fusal to  treat  the  visitor,  at  the  office,  as  a  clergyman, 
a  strict  avoidance  of  social  intercourse,  and  a  mysterious 
increase  in  the  preacher's  small  salary,  "  from  a  distant 
friend." 

Martin  necessarily  came  directly  under  the  influence 
of  this  seductive  form  of  reasoning.  His  gratitude 
towards  Judge  Northcote;  his  admiration  for  the  man's 
mental  equipment;  and  his  desire  to  show  these  sen- 
timents by  the  highest  obedience,  proscribed  serious 
antagonism  to  his  preceptor's  teachings.     His  concep- 

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Martin    Brook 

tion  of  spiritual  things  remained  in  embryo.  If  Judge 
Northcote  could  see  no  logical  reason  for  accepting  the 
Methodistic  theory  of  a  personal  God,  Martin  could 
invent  no  s3Tstem  of  logic  to  prove  his  tutor  in  error. 
God  and  heaven  and  mother  were  still  to  him  the  same 
as  when  he  prayed  to  that  silent  figure  under  the  white 
sheet. 

There  was  also  a  subtle  ministration  to  Martin's 
vanity  in  the  compliment  of  being  taken  D37  the  judge 
into  the  readings  of  Plato,  Voltaire  and  Paine  on  terms 
of  equality;  into  the  comparative  stud\^  of  Homer, 
Dante,  and  Milton;  into  discussions  of  the  growth  of 
the  religious  idea,  and  the  values  of  literature.  "  Pan- 
theism" held  a  pleasing  sound.  Above  all  else,  the 
sense  of  intellectual  growth  appealed  delightfully  to 
the  youthful  mind. 

And  the  judge  revelled  in  this  experimentation  with 
a  soul.  He  had  discovered  the  " stuff"  of  the  parent 
stock  in  Martin,  who  did  not  lack  strength  of  mind  or 
will.  There  was  the  making  of  a  man  in  him — a  man 
fit  for  the  coming  struggle  in  the  nation,  which  the 
judge  was  constantly  forecasting  —  the  coming  time 
when  strong  forces  would  be  needed  to  check  the  flood 
of  turbulent  democracy.  The  rapid  settlement  of  the 
East,  under  the  first  impulse  of  "improvement"  and 
immigration,  alarmed  the  judge.  He  sought  to  use 
a  new  force,  seen  in  this  young  man,  but  which  was 
not  remaining  in  his  own  grasp.  He  would  make  this 
boy  a  barrier  against  Radicalism.  Religion  he  cared 
little  for;  it  was  but  an  incident — an  effect  of  locality. 
The  greater  work  for  Martin,  as  his  instructor  saw  it, 
lay  in  the  realm  of  the  law-makers,  when  restraining 
statutes  should  be  required  to  check  the  tide  of  ignorance. 

But  despite  these  plans  and  studies  at  Elmhurst,  the 
Methodist  Episcopal  Church  was  then  experiencing  a 
phenomenal  expansion  throughout  the  country.    There 

90 


Martin    Brook 

was  no  sign  of  decaying  vitality  in  the  institution. 
Men  were  not  questioning  the  textual  inspiration  of 
the  Bible,  or  the  wisdom  of  the  Methodist  creed.  The 
spirit  of  emotionalism  was  everywhere  increasing. 

The  region  of  the  upper  Hudson  was  not  keeping 
pace  with  the  growth  of  Methodism.  There  was  a 
condition  of  worldliness  in  the  northern  counties  that 
was  deplored  by  the  Church.  The  bishop,  whose 
heart  was  alive  to  the  needs  of  his  old  circuit,  which 
included  Sandy  Hill,  decided  on  an  itinerant  preacher 
named  Elisha  Morris  as  the  right  person  for  the  place. 
He  was  a  man  of  powerful  frame,  uncouth  of  manner, 
dogmatic,  illiterate,  but  full  of  evangelical  zeal,  and 
incapable  of  fatigue.  He  had  ridden  the  northern 
circuit  in  the  days  that  tried  the  stamina  of  man  and 
horse. 

Mr.  Morris  knew  Judge  Northcote,  and  looked  upon 
him  as  a  most  dangerous  enemy  to  the  kingdom  of 
Christ  and  Christ's  chosen  instrument  on  earth — the 
Methodist  Church.  Morris  had  refused,  time  and  time 
again,  to  accept  donations  from  the  hands  of  this  Baal, 
but  had  relaxed  none  of  his  vigor  in  the  work  of  con- 
verting the  influential  though  deluded  man. 

The  Rev.  Elisha  Morris  came  down  upon  the  timid 
and  scattered  fold  of  Sandy  Hill  like  a  pentecostal 
flame.  He  drove  the  weak  sheep  to  cover  and  picked 
out  the  bravest  ones  as  leaders.  He  put  the  bells  on 
these  and  let  down  the  bars  for  a  revival ;  and  although 
it  was  not  customary  to  hold  protracted  meetings  just 
as  spring  work  was  coming  on,  Brother  Morris  roared 
his  orders  in  the  ears  of  his  people,  and  the  church 
doors  flew  open. 

Night  after  night  the  labor  of  salvation  went  forward. 
The  little  town  was  convulsed  with  religious  zeal. 
Farmers  drove  in  from  the  surrounding  country.  Their 
teams  were  hitched  in  every  available  spot.     The  shade 

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Martin    Brook 

trees  along  the  streets,  used  as  posts,  were  gnawed  to 
ruin  by  impatient  animals — a  desecration  which  Judge 
Northcote  resented  as  a  form  of  sinfulness  greater  even 
than  a  lack  of  faith. 

All  of  the  denominations  in  the  village,  excepting  the 
Episcopalians,  joined  in  the  meetings.  Mr.  Coulter 
held  aloof,  but  Brother  Morris,  undisturbed  b}T  ritualistic 
opinions,  welcomed  all.  If  any  believed  in  immersion, 
he  was  ready  to  plunge  them  in  the  redeeming  waters 
of  the  Hudson ;  if  in  sprinkling,  he  stood  to  cleanse  them 
with  the  purifying  spray.  He  was  there,  above  all 
other  considerations,  regardless  of  forms,  to  awaken 
the  spirit  of  the  Lord. 

Sandy  Hill  had  stood  long  enough  on  the  verge  of  hell. 

Of  course  it  was  impossible  for  Martin  to  remain 
entirely  indifferent  to  this  great  movement.  The  ex- 
citement was  in  the  air.  Mr.  Morris  had  not  called 
on  Judge  Northcote  at  his  office,  but  that  omission  of 
courtesy  did  not  affect  the  judge's  peace  of  mind.  He 
had  been  solicited  by  the  Methodist  official  board  to 
contribute  to  the  expense  fund,  and  had  done  so  with 
bland  generosity,  simply  suggesting  that  the  trees  be 
saved  as  well  as  the  souls. 

The  judge  was  relating  this  incident  one  evening 
at  the  table,  while  the  revival  was  at  its  height,  when 
Martin,  laughing  at  the  witticism,  said  : 

"  I  believe  I  will  go  down  to  hear  Mr.  Morris,  if  you 
have  no  objection.  They  say  he  is  a  remarkably  effec- 
tive speaker/' 

"  By  all  means  go,"  the  judge  replied,  a  slight  smile 
twitching  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "It  is  your  duty 
to  study  every  phase  of  life,  and  this  is  certainly  an 
interesting  one." 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,  sir.  I  was  wondering  what  this 
man  can  say  to  so  move  the  people.  We  may  learn  a 
new  trick  in  oratory  from  him."     He  laughed  lightly. 

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Martin    Brook 

"Oh,  Martin/'  Mrs.  Wright  said,  gently.  "You 
ought  not  to  laugh  at  religion." 

"I'm  not  irreverent/'  he  replied. 

"  Well/'  said  the  judge,  with  profound  gravity,  "  pray 
don't  learn  a  new  trick  in  grammar,  my  boy." 

"Why,  brother!"  Mrs.  Wright  said,  truly  disturbed. 
"  I  am  afraid  that  we  are  all  being  demoralized.  1  have 
talked  the  matter  over  with  Mr.  Coulter,  and  he  has 
reached  the  conclusion  that  the  Church  is  certainly 
being  brought  into  disrepute." 

"  1  fancy  he  means  the  people,  not  the  Church,"  the 
judge  replied. 

"Martin,"  she  urged,  "please  don't  remain  if  you 
find  the  air  of  the  place  foul.  1  am  told  that  the  ven- 
tilation is  wholly  neglected." 

"Don't  worry,  little  mother,"  Martin  said,  bending 
and  kissing  her  forehead.  "  You  are  too  watchful  of 
me.     Even  the  air  I  breathe  is  watched  over  by  you." 

As  he  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Wright,  flushed  with  pleas- 
ure, said :  "  I  hope  Martin  will  not  be  influenced  by  this 
man." 

"  Influenced?"  the  judge  repeated,  contemptuously. 
"  I  trust  you  have  a  higher  opinion  of  him,  and  of  me, 
than  to  entertain  such  a  thought  seriously." 


Chapter  IX 

THE  little  church  was  stifling,  as  Martin  passed  into 
it  from  the  clear,  crisp  air.  There  was  not  a  vacant 
seat  near  the  door  or  the  small  windows.  He  stood, 
hat  in  hand,  looking  about  him,  studying  the  people. 
From  his  vantage-point  at  the  lower  end  of  the  centre 
aisle  he  caught  a  ludicrous  view  of  the  backs  of  heads 
and  the  contortions  of  the  audience  as  it  twisted  in  solemn 
curiosity  at  the  sound  of  late-comers.  He  drew  a  mental 
picture  of  the  scene,  with  which  to  amuse  the  judge. 
The  building  was  plain  enough,  surely,  to  conform 
to  his  opinion  of  Methodism.  A  desolate  place,  with 
a  level  floor  and  straight-backed,  uncushioned  pews; 
the  bare  white  walls  and  ceilings  unrelieved  by  a  sin- 
gle decoration.  Between  the  windows,  on  tin  brackets 
with  fluted  reflectors,  were  tallow  candles,  that  flared 
and  sputtered  in  winding-sheets,  dripping  grease. 
The  one  door  opened  from  a  small  vestibule,  that  pro- 
truded like  a  sentry's  box  on  the  front  of  the  building. 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  church  from  Martin  was  a 
semi-circular  platform,  about  a  foot  high,  enclosed  by 
an  altar-rail.  A  kneeling-place  projected  beyond  this 
railing.  A  higher  platform,  reached  by  two  steps  on 
either  side,  stood  on  the  lower  one  against  the  rear 
wall,  extending  forward  some  few  feet.  At  the  front 
of  this  stood  the  square  box  of  a  pulpit,  with  a  Bible  and 
hymn-book.  An  oil  lamp  on  the  desk  sent  its  feeble 
ray  and  strong  stench  full  into  the  faces  of  the  audience. 
There  was   a  haircloth-covered  settle  behind  the*  desk 

94 


Martin    Brook 

and  a  plain  table  just  beneath  the  pulpit  behind  the  rail. 
Martin  had  attended  services  here  before,  but  now  he 
found  the  atmosphere  so  different,  morally  and  phys- 
ically, that  he  felt  out  of  place.  All  sense  of  rever- 
ence was  lacking  in  him.  He  was  critical  and  dis- 
pleased. 

The  meeting  was  not  yet  begun,  but  his  curiosity 
was  already  satisfied.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  stay  long  in  such  an  uncongenial  company. 
He  acknowledged  to  himself  that  Mrs.  Wright  was, 
as  usual,  correct.  He  decided  to  go  home.  He  faced 
about  and  started  out.     Brother  Morris  barred  his  way. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  young  man ! "  the  preacher  exclaimed 
in  a  loud  voice.  "Tin  glad  to  see  you  here.  Praise 
God!" 

Every  head  was  craned  in  his  direction — every  eye 
was  fixed  on  the  pair  —  the  towering  frame  of  the 
preacher,  the  smaller  but  no  less  noticeable  figure  of 
Martin.  The  contrast  in  dress,  in  manner,  in  spirit, 
was  striking.  The  preacher  was  carelessly,  even 
untidily  dressed.  His  flaring  coat  was  spotted  with 
the  drippings  of  many  dinners.  Martin  was  in  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  trim  and  well  put  together — his 
spike-tailed  blue  coat  and  light  trousers,  his  polished 
boots,  his  high  hat,  all  brushed  and  spotless. 

The  preacher  flung  an  arm  over  Martin's  shoulder 
and  pushed  him  along  the  aisle,  with  annoying  in- 
sistency. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  Martin  protested,  trying  to  dis- 
engage himself.  "  There  is  no  seat  here.  I  will  come 
again — " 

"Plenty  of  room  —  plenty  of  room!"  the  preacher 
cried.  "Here,  brother,"  pulling  a  man  out  of  a  pew 
near  the  front,  "go  on  the  pulpit  steps.  Make  way 
for  this  young  soul  seeking  repentance.  Glory  to 
God,  there  is  always  room  in  a  Methodist  church!" 

95 


Martin    Brook 

He  pressed  Martin  into  the  vacated  seat.  The  man 
he  had  displaced  crept  forward  and  sank  down  on  the 
platform  steps,  stroking  his  mouth  and  smiling  in  em- 
barrassed self-consciousness. 

Martin,  crimson  with  mortification  and  anger,  dropped 
into  the  seat.     The  preacher  ascended  the  platform. 

A  moment  later  the  congregation  stragglingly  arose, 
as  Brother  Morris  roared  forth  the  opening  lines  of 
the  hymn,  "Turn  to  the  Lord  and  seek  salvation." 

A  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  were  fastened  on  Martin 
when  he  stood  up.  He  was  outraged  at  the  famil- 
iarity of  this  man  who  had  forced  him  into  such  promi- 
nence. He  wavered  between  a  sense  of  courtesy  and  a 
feeling  of  wounded  pride.  He  hated  to  be  conspicuous 
— yet  he  felt  it  impossible  to  retreat. 

The  preacher's  opening  prayer  and  the  second  hymn 
were  unheeded  by  him.  He  decided  to  leave  the  church, 
let  the  scandal  be  what  it  might,  although  he  re- 
alized that  such  action,  by  one  of  his  well-known 
views,  at  this  moment  of  popular  feeling,  was  a  serious 
thing. 

But  when  Mr.  Morris  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  plat- 
form, without  opening  the  Bible,  and  began  his  exhor- 
tation, Martin  changed  his  mind. 

The  man's  odd  personality  compelled  attention. 
Martin  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  resentment.  At  first 
the  speaker's  words  carried  no  meaning.  But  sud- 
denly a  message  came  for  him  —  a  challenge  of  his 
opinions. 

"There  is  a  personal  God,"  he  heard  the  preacher 
say,  with  the  positiveness  of  knowledge.  "A  per- 
sonal God,  to  whom  we  must  go  for  salvation.  In 
our  vanity  we  say  there  is  no  God.  It  is  the  fool  that 
sayeth  this,  and  the  fool  perisheth.  But  God  leads 
us  by  ways  we  do  not  comprehend.  He  gives  us  life. 
He  gives  us  freedom.     He  leads  us  on   into  the  right 

96 


Martin    Brook 

path.  He  saves  our  lives  from  destruction,  that  we 
may  glorify  Him.  Christ,  His  Son,  is  our  mediator 
and  our  strength.  A  personal  God — a  God  of  mercy 
to  the  penitent — a  God  of  justice  and  wrath  to  the 
impenitent  sinner." 

A  tremor  of  hostility  ran  through  Martin.  He  began 
mentally  to  frame  a  reply;  but  his  thoughts  were  dis- 
ordered in  the  torrent  of  commandment  from  the  pulpit. 

"A  personal  God?"  That  was  impossible — absurd. 
It  was  contrary  to  reason — to  the  teachings  of —  The 
teachings  of  whom? 

Confused  by  the  emotion  that  now  began  to  assert 
itself  among  those  about  him,  astounded  by  the  asser- 
tiveness  of  the  preacher,  whose  word  was  law  in  this 
sanctuary,  Martin  could  not  preserve  a  continuity  of 
ideas.  His  own  emotional  nature,  so  long  repressed  in 
the  calm  and  confidence  of  the  library,  was  touched 
to  life. 

The  sermon  was  ended.  The  converts  were  troop- 
ing past  him  to  the  altar,  and  kneeling  in  loud  prayer. 

There  were  cries  and  groans  and  invocations.  Hys- 
terical women  fell  to  the  floor  and  wrung  their  hands. 
The  congregation  became  a  mass  of  swaying  people. 
Arms  were  held  high  in  air,  and  sins  unthought-of 
were  openly  confessed. 

Men  crawled  about  the  platform  on  their  knees, 
stroking  the  heads  of  the  weeping  converts.  One 
young  woman,  overwhelmed  by  the  excitement,  lay 
prone  upon  the  floor,  rolling  over  and  over  in  an  agony 
of  distress. 

From  the  older  members  in  the  pews,  kneeling  on 
the  floor  with  heads  buried  in  their  hands,  issued  the 
deep  bass  of  "Thank  God!"  and  the  shrill  treble  of 
the  women's  "  Blessed  Lord  ! w  It  was  a  babel  of 
sound,  an  abandonment  of  self-control. 

Among  these  mourners  Brother  Morris  moved,  utter- 
G  97 


Martin    Brook 

ing  imploring  words  to  some,  commanding  words  to 
others. 

Martin  felt  the  preacher's  ej-es  burning  into  him. 
But  Morris  read  the  young  mind  before  him — he  re- 
frained from  urging  Martin  to  "come  forward/' 

A  man  Martin  knew,  and  for  whom  he  had  but 
slight  respect,  was  less  prudent  in  his  course.  He 
came  up  to  him,  and,  laying  a  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
complacently  urged:  "My  dear  young  friend,  come 
with  me  and  get  salvation." 

"No,  thank  3Tou,"  Martin  said,  impulsively.  "I 
guess  there  isn't  any  more  than  you  need  for  3Tourself." 

He  pushed  the  man  aside  and  walked  quickly  to 
the  door,  trampling  on  a  pair  of  feet  that  projected 
into  the  aisle  while  their  owner  was  on  his  knees  pray- 
ing with  a  young,  hysterical  girl. 

At  the  door  Martin  paused  and  looked  back.  The 
excitement  was  still  on,  and  the  woman  who  had  been 
rolling  by  the  altar  was  now  in  a  dead  faint. 

The  scene  disgusted  him.  He  hastened  into  the 
normal  atmosphere  of  the  street;  out  under  the  placid 
sky,  with  its  marshalled  starry  hosts  and  its  evidences 
of  omnipotent  quiet.  He  filled  his  lungs  with  pure  air. 
He  regained  a  mental  equilibrium. 

And  he  was  still  of  this  mind  when  the  family  assem- 
bled at  breakfast  the  next  morning.  He  said  but  little 
about  the  meeting,  either  to  the  judge  or  Mrs.  Wright; 
and  spoke  only  of  the  evident  sincerity  of  Mr.  Morris, 
commenting  on  his  strange  influence  over  the  people, 
and  evading  the  subject  of  his  own  impressions.  He 
silently  resolved  to  discuss  that  question  of  the  per- 
sonality of  God  with  the  judge,  if  an  opportunity  were 
offered ;  but  during  all  that  day  he  could  not  bring  his 
thoughts  into  collected  shape  for  such  a  conversation. 

That  evening,  however,  he  went  to  the  church 
earlier  and    secured  a  seat.     It  was    just  as  well,  he 

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Martin    Brook 

thought,  not  to  introduce  this  great  theme  in  his  talks 
with  the  judge  until  he  had  obtained  a  clearer  under- 
standing of  the  preacher's  meaning. 

Brother  Morris  smiled  broadly  at  him  from  the  plat- 
form, before  opening  the  service,  and  Martin  was  dis- 
appointed when  he  made  no  allusion  to  his  previous 
subject,  but  presented  yet  another  aspect  of  the  re- 
ligious problem.  The  new  lesson  was  on  man's  duty 
to  God.  The  main  deduction  lifted  man  to  a  higher 
plane.  Mr.  Morris  declared  that  every  human  being 
was  directly  responsible  to  the  Almighty,  as  a  free- 
will agent.  The  discourse  was  logical  from  this  view- 
point, and  Martin  could  accept  much  of  what  the  preach- 
er said.  His  treatment  carried  the  proposition  into 
the  realm  of  ethics,  where  Martin  was  more  familiar 
with  the  idea,  and  he  perceived  weak  points  in  the 
speaker's  argument.  But  this  effect  was  dispelled  when, 
just  before  the  invitation  to  "seekers"  to  "come  for- 
ward," Brother  Morris  advanced  to  the  altar-rail  and 
said,  with  great  impressiveness  : 

"Every  spirit  that  confesseth  that  Jesus  Christ  is 
come  in  the  flesh  is  of  God. '  Our  personal  Father  made 
manifest  is  our  Saviour.  Let  us  confess  our  faith  in 
Him.  All  of  you  who  have  found  salvation  in  Christ, 
stand  up!"  He  lifted  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  mild 
command. 

The  members  of  the  churches,  the  professors  of  re- 
ligion of  whatever  denomination,  arose.  Only  the 
"  outsiders  "  remained  seated. 

Then,  in  a  firmer  and  more  commanding  voice,  the 
preacher  shouted : 

"Those  now  standing  may  sit  down.     Thank  God 
for  this  evidence  of  His  grace!     Now,  all  of  you  who 
wish  to  be  saved  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  who  have 
not  yet  found  Christ  but  who  earnestly  wish  to  do  so 
stand  up  !" 

99 


Martin    Brook 

He  lifted  both  hands  imperatively.  His  gesture  im- 
plied condemnation  of  those  who  dared  to  disobey  him. 

Martin  sat  still.  The  speaker's  manner  provoked 
antagonism;  his  mandate  seemed  like  an  imposition. 
Martin  looked  about  him.  Every  person  was  standing, 
except  those  who  had  already  avowed  their  faith.  A 
wave  of  humiliation  surged  over  him.  He  was  the 
centre  of  observation.  His  face  flamed  with  anger. 
Brother  Morris  pointed  directly  at  him. 

"My  dear  young  brother,  don't  you  want  to  join  the 
host  of  the  saved?" 

Martin  started  up.  He  was  impelled  to  meet  this 
man  on  his  own  ground,  and  explain  his  attitude. 
This  was  a  time  for  argument — not  command.  He 
was  thrust  into  a  wrong  position  before  the  public. 
He  had  the  right  of  defence.  He  opened  his  lips  in 
protest  and  began  to  speak ;  but  his  words  were  drowned 
in  a  volume  of  song,  led  by  the  deep  bass  of  Brother 
Morris : 

" '  Come,  thou  Fount  of  every  blessing. 
Tune  my  heart  to  sing  thy  praise.'  " 

Martin  sank  down  into  his  seat.  He  hid  his  burning 
face  in  his  hand.  He  had  been  defrauded  of  a  right. 
The  trick  was  cowardly,  but  he  would  challenge  this 
man  to  a  public  debate  and  argue  him  to  silence.  As 
he  sat  there,  his  mind  running  rapidly  on  how  to  effect 
such  a  meeting,  a  fervent  "Thank  God"  sounded  in 
his  ears.  The  people  had  mistaken  his  action.  He 
was  helpless.  He  vaguely  heard  the  call  for  converts. 
Men  and  women  were  praying  aloud,  regardless  of 
interruptions.  Sobs  and  groans  and  pleas  for  mercy 
filled  the  room.  Above  all  other  noises  roared  the  tones 
of  Morris,  uttering  the  phrases  of  the  evangelist,  like 
an  engulfing  tide. 

Martin  got  up  from  his  seat.     A  voice  close  to  him 

100 


Martin    Brook 

cried  out:  "Another  soul  saved.  Praise  the  Lord!" 
He  looked  furiously  in  the  direction  of  the  speaker. 
A  man  was  on  his  knees,  in  the  pew  opposite,  with  up- 
lifted face  clutched  in  both  hands.  Martin  turned  from 
him,  repelled  by  the  sight.  He  hurried  from  the  church, 
more  offended  than  on  the  previous  night. 

"I  am  done  with  Methodism  forever/'  he  said,  aloud, 
lifting  his  arms  and  sweeping  them  backward  with  a 
gesture  of  repulsion. 

But  Methodism  was  not  done  with  him.  It  was 
publicly  declared  next  day  that  "Martin  Brook  had 
found  religion' ' ;  and  the  week  that  followed  this  scene 
was  one  of  agony  to  him.  He  learned  that  the  people 
of  Sandy  Hill,  not  understanding  his  real  motive  in 
standing  up  before  the  congregation,  had  assumed  that 
he  was  "converted."  By  his  unintentional  attitude 
of  penitence  in  the  meeting,  according  to  these  reports, 
he  had  expressed  a  wish  to  find  salvation.  To  rise  for 
prayers  and  afterwards  sit  with  bowed  head  were  evi- 
dences of  a  regenerated  soul. 

Pride  struggled  within  him  to  announce  why  he  had 
stood  up  in  the  meeting ;  but  the  sentiment  of  the  town 
was  so  strongly  voiced  that  the  moral  courage  of  a 
martyr  alone  would  have  sufficed  to  carry  him  through 
an  admission  of  his  true  intention. 

Besides,  did  he  not  desire  salvation?  The  religious 
instinct  in  his  nature  quickened  into  life  —  became 
paramount  in  his  thoughts.  But  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  face  the  possible  cynicism  or  contempt  of 
the  judge  by  telling  of  this  change. 

He  must  battle  it  out  in  secret  with  that  personal 
God,  whose  nature  had  become  that  of  a  vengeful  Deity. 

He  avoided  the  meetings,  but  the  contest  raged  with- 
in him.  The  idea  of  an  angry  personal  God  became 
overmastering.  It  grew  on  him  like  an  impending 
terror.     He  could  not  escape  from  it.     Sleepless  and 

101 


Martin    Brook 

haggard,  he  was  an  object  of  anxiety  to  Airs.  Wright, 
who  was  restrained  from  speaking  by  the  manifest 
wish  for  silence  on  his  part. 

Judge  Northcote,  who  had  been  watching  Martin 
ever  since  that  first  night,  and  who  realized  that  a 
false  move  was  perilous,  now  came  forward.  He  felt 
that  it  was  time  to  speak. 

"  What  is  it,  Martin,  that  is  distressing  you?"  he 
said,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  office.  "  You  seem 
perturbed.     Or  are  3Tou  discontented  with  your  work?" 

"My  dear  benefactor,"  cried  Martin,  the  tears  com- 
ing into  his  eyes  from  the  intensity  of  feeling  which 
had  been  so  long  repressed,  "discontented — after  all 
you  have  done  and  are  doing  for  me?  I  am  more  than 
grateful — and  it  is  that  very  fact  that  disturbs  me  now." 

"  How  can  this  be?"  the  judge  asked,  calmly. 

"  Why,  sir,  suppose  that  I  were  to  differ  with  3tou  in 
belief — in  opinion?"  Martin  ventured. 

"I  have  tried  to  cultivate  3Tour  mind  on  broad  lines," 
Mr.  Northcote  replied. 

"But  you  do  not  believe  in  the  personality  of  God," 
Martin  said,  with  earnestness. 

Judge  Northcote  was  silent  a  moment,  his  head 
resting  in  his  hand,  as  he  sat  in  deep  thought  at  his 
desk. 

"I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  improbable,"  he 
said,  slowly,  "than  the  Methodistic  doctrine  of  the  per- 
sonality of  God.  But  I  am  growing  to  believe  in  the 
personality  of  man,  my  dear  Martin,  as  I  study  your 
developing  mind."  He  smiled  sadly.  " Life  is  a  problem 
too  deep  for  me  to  solve,  and  would  it  not  be  vast  egotism 
for  me  to  profess  ability  to  solve  the  mystery  of  death 
and  God?"  He  tapped  his  snuff-box  lightly,  without 
opening  the  lid. 

But  to  a  mind  like  Martin's,  and  to  one  in  his  present 
mood,  the  negative  reasoning  was  only  an  aggrava- 

102 


Martin    Brook 

tion.  To  whom  could  he  turn  for  help  and  counsel  if 
not  to  this  man,  whose  life-long  study  of  philosophy 
would  seem  to  have  fitted  him  for  the  office  of  adviser? 
Was  religion,  then,  something  apart  from  the  intellect? 
If  man  were  the  highest  form  of  God's  creation,  and 
the  intellectual  man  the  highest  type  of  the  mortal, 
was  not  this  failure  to  see  the  truth  a  confession  of 
God's  own  failure? 

Martin  could  not  go  to  Mrs.  Wright  with  this  prob- 
lem. He  knew  that  her  conception  of  religious  faith 
was  bounded  by  a  creed  which  did  not  sanction  his 
emotional  disturbance.  Her  advice  would  but  send 
him  to  Mr.  Coulter,  and  in  the  rector's  spiritual  curric- 
ulum he  saw  no  hope  of  aid. 

And  yet  he  must  speak,  or  die.  He  was  trembling 
on  the  verge  of  this  intense  despair  when  there  came 
to  his  mind  the  image  of  Mary.  Why  had  he  not 
thought  of  .her  before? 

He  hurried  over  to  the  doctor's.  There,  under  the 
wide-spreading  shade  of  the  great  maples,  on  a  rustic 
seat,  with  a  bit  of  tatting  in  her  busy  hands,  Mary 
sat,  the  picture  of  a  soul  at  peace. 

"Oh,  Mary,"  he  cried,  as  he  flung  himself  on  the 
grass  at  her  feet,  "you  seem  like  the  embodiment  of 
contentment!" 

"Aren't  3^011  feeling  well?"  she  asked.  "You  seem 
distressed.  Let  me  get  you  a  cooling  drink.  These 
first  warm  days  are  so  enervating."  She  rose  to  carry 
out  her  hospitable  intention. 

"  No,  sit  down,  just  as  you  were,  and  let  me  look  at 
you,"  he  pleaded,  half  demanding.  "Don't  do  that 
work."     He  took  the  ivory  shuttle  from  her  hand. 

"You  alarm  me,  Martin.     What  is  the  matter?" 

"  I  alarm  myself,"  he  replied.  Then,  with  his  head  on 
his  hand,  as  he  reclined  on  his  elbow :  "  Do  you  believe 
that  God  is  an  angry,  revengeful,  cruel  personality?" 

103 


Martin    Brook 

"Are  you  so  deeply  impressed  by  Mr.  Morris?"  she 
asked. 

"That  evades  my  question,"  he  said,  with  a  frown. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  do  not  believe 
in  that  idea  of  God.  To  me,  the  Deity  is  a  loving  father. 
You  know  how  I  love  and  venerate  my  father,  and  I 
can  conceive  of  no  more  divine  a  being  than  one  who  is 
infinitely  good  in  all  that  mj7  father  represents  of  good, 
and  without  the  human  weaknesses  of  hate,  revenge, 
malice,  and  selfishness." 

"God  is  infinite  Justice:  we  are  always  deserving 
of  punishment,"  Martin  declared. 

"God  is  Love,"  Mar5T  said,  softly. 

"Oh!"  cried  Martin,  springing  up.  "The  infinite 
mj'stery  and  contradiction  of  it  all!  Why  can't  some 
one  be  sent  to  tell  us  the  ultimate  'How  to  believe'?" 

"One  has  been  sent,"  she  said.  "Martin,  why  not 
accept  the  teaching  of  Christ  himself  without  trying 
to  solve  the  riddles  that  man  has  made?  You  know 
that  father  and  I  are  not  orthodox,  but  we  are  happy 
in  our  own  simple  faith  in  the  mercy  of  God." 

"I  had  hoped  3Tou  could  tell  me  how  to  believe," 
Martin  said,  going  slowly  away.  "But  you  can  do 
no  more  than  the  judge  or  Mrs.  Wright.  It  is  always 
the  same:  'Believe!  Believe!'  and  never  a  word  as  to 
how  to  gain  belief." 

"Become  as  a  little  child,  and  learn  first  how  to 
love,"  she  said;  but  Martin  was  already  bej^ond  the 
sound  of  her  low  voice. 

And  so  he  remained  to  the  voices  about  him  during 
the  weeks  of  this  period  of  disquiet.  Unable  to  sleep, 
fevered,  oppressed,  one  night  he  sat  by  his  window, 
struggling  alone  with  the  question  that  seemed  fated 
never  to  be  solved.  The  waning  moon  stared  at  him 
from  a  hazy  sky.  The  room  became  a  prison.  He 
cautiously  opened  his  chamber  door  and  went  softly 

104 


Martin    Brook 

down  the  stairs.     The  house  maddened  him  with  its 
silence.     He  must  have  freedom. 

Out  over  the  moonlit  lawn,  across  the  grass,  into 
the  deserted  street,  and  towards  the  open  country,  he 
hurried  on,  pursued  by  the  tormenting  questions  that 
had  robbed  him  of  his  peace.  He  paid  no  heed  to 
where  he  was  going — his  only  thought  to  be  where 
walls  could  not  stifle  him. 

Nature  was  sleeping.  The  only  sign  of  life  was  the 
baying  of  a  hound  borne  on  the  still  night  air.  Sud- 
denly the  sound  of  water  broke  upon  his  senses.  He 
paused.  In  the  valley  below,  subdued  by  the  shadows 
of  the  cliff,  he  saw  the  dim  outlines  of  the  ruined  mill. 
He  became  conscious  that  he  stood  on  the  edge  o,f  the 
old  rollway.  § 

The  years  dropped  from  him.  Again  he  was  the  boy 
whose  life  was  saved  at  this  very  spot.  That  feeling 
of  awful  peril  he  had  experienced  came  back  to  him, 
the  crashing  log,  the  thought  of  death. 

"He  saves  our  lives  from  destruction  that  we  may 
glorify  Him!"  The  preacher's  words  were  on  his  lips. 
He  shouted  them  aloud.  Why  had  he  been  saved 
from  death? 

A  whippoorwill  answered  the  echo  of  his  cry.  An 
owl  hooted  in  the  woods.  The  whir  of  insects  and  the 
mysterious  hum  and  rustle  of  the  unseen  myriads 
came  all  at  once  to  his  ears.  Nature  was  neither  dead 
nor  sleeping.  Again  he  listened  for  the  Voice  of  the 
solitude;  again  he  realized  that  there  was  about  and 
beyond  another  realm — the  abode  of  never-ceasing  life. 
Only  the  blindness  and  dumbness  of  mortality  shut 
him  from  that  region  of  the  immortal. 

He  stood  alone  with  God. 

He  flung  himself  upon  the  ground  in  agony  of  the 
new  birth.     He  wrestled  dumbly  with  the  spirit. 

And  as  he  grovelled  in  the  darkness,  the  distant  hills 

105 


Martin    Brook 

took  on  the  tint  of  morning.  He  did  not  see  the  gleam. 
The  heights  grew  radiant  with  a  coming  glory.  Dark- 
ness skulked  awajT  and  hid  herself  in  the  ravines. 
The  river  caught  the  reflection  in  the  skies  and  lifted 
it  upon  a  thousand  joyous  crests. 

Martin  arose.  He  faced  the  east.  The  majesty  of 
the  day  was  come. 

The  sun  lifted  itself  above  the  horizon. 

Martin  raised  his  arms  with  a  cry  of  joy,  to  greet 
the  symbol  of  the  Supreme.  He  had  won  the  victory 
over  Self.  God  was  personal  to  him — the  Truth  had 
dawned. 

"  Oh,  God !     Help  me  to  know  Thy  truth ! " 

Martin  appeared  at  breakfast  that  morning  somewhat 
tardily,  but  before  the  judge  had  left  the  table.  He  was 
calm,  though  pale.  Nothing  was  said  by  any  one  to 
elicit  explanation.  Curiosity  concerning  another  per- 
son's affairs  was  considered  b\r  the  master  of  Elmhurst 
as  something  worse  than  a  moral  lapse — a  vulgarity. 
Mrs.  Wright's  customary  inquiry  about  the  health  of 
each,  with  a  slight  increase  of  interest  towards  Mar- 
tin, and  his  smiling  assurance  that  he  felt  better  than 
he  had  for  many  days  past,  closed  the  morning's  cus- 
tomary incident  of  ceremony. 

The  revival  meetings  came  to  an  end  within  the  month, 
through  exhaustion.  Brother  Morris  called  on  Martin 
at  the  office  and  asked  after  his  spiritual  welfare,  re- 
marking upon  the  absence  of  his  young  friend  from 
the  closing  services,  and  suggesting  that  no  new  con- 
vert should  miss  such  opportunities  for  grace. 

The  judge  was  not  present  at  this  interview.  The 
preacher  had  evidentfy  chosen  the  moment  intentionally. 
Martin  listened  respectfully  to  the  words  of  exhortation 
and  replied  quietly  that  the  subject  was  one  he  could 
best  determine  in  his  own  way  and  time.     His  disposi- 

106 


Martin    Brook 

tion  to  argue  with  the  man  was  gone,  with  the  passing 
of  the  agony  and  the  stress  of  emotion  on  the  rollway. 

He  felt  that  he  had  emerged  from  the  trial  by  emo- 
tional fires  and  now  stood  in  the  cooler  atmosphere  of 
the  intellectual  ordeal.  He  must  satisfy  reason  before 
admitting  his  acceptance  of  a  new  doctrine,  whatever 
the  consequences  to  himself  might  be.  He  took  up  a 
course  of  reading  in  theology  and  ecclesiastical  his- 
tory :  the  dogmas  of  the  Established  Church,  the  creeds 
of  the  dissenting  bodies,  and  especially  the  ideas  and 
works  of  Wesley,  with  the  rise  and  growth  of  Methodism. 

At  last,  assured  of  his  position,  and  convinced  of  the 
personality  of  God,  he  was  prepared  to  lay  the  sub- 
ject of  his  religious  awakening  before  Judge  Northcote. 
They  were  seated  on  the  porch,  one  midsummer  even- 
ing, when  the  theme  was  broached. 

Martin  made  plain  confession  of  his  experiences  and 
conclusions. 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  summing  up  his  story,  "there 
is  truth  in  the  Methodist  form  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
fatherhood  of  God.  The  idea  of  a  divine  personality 
is  comforting.  I  know  that  you  differ  with  me  in  this, 
and  I  fear  I  shall  incur  your  displeasure;  but  I  have 
fought  the  battle  in  my  own  way  and  must  ask  you  to 
bear  with  me.  Do  not  think,  sir,  that  I  set  up  my  opin- 
ions against  yours  in  a  spirit  of  egotism.  My  gratitude 
towards  you  and  my  admiration  of  your  mind  and 
scholarship  are,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  the  sources 
of  my  keenest  suffering  in  the  acceptance  of  this  change 
of  thought.  I  seem  presumptuous  in  this  independence 
of  mind ;  but  it  is,  when  all  is  said,  only  the  exercise  of 
free-will  in  accordance  with  Methodism." 

The  judge  smiled.  "I  am  a  Methodist  in  spots. 
Mr.  Morris  says  I  am  an  infidel — the  hardest  term  that 
can  be  applied  in  his  vocabulary.  But  I  am  far  from 
infidelity.     In  my  devotion  to  the  idea  of  Law,  I  urge 

107 


Martin    Brook 

all  men  to  the  conservative  observance  of  existing  sys- 
tems.    I  am  that  anomaly — a  radical  conservative." 

"Can  such  a  man  do  the  best  work  for  humanity?" 
Martin  asked. 

"Such  men  are  a  necessity.  The}'  are  the  balance- 
wheels — the  counterpoise  of  society/'  the  judge  replied. 
"They  do  not  perform  great  works;  they  prevent  the 
destruction  of  things,  until  there  is  time  for  the  slow 
unfolding  of  new  truths." 

The  judge  lapsed  into  silence.  Martin  did  not  dare 
to  interrupt  his  thoughts. 

"My  dear  boy,"  the  judge  said,  after  an  interval, 
"  we  have  reached  a  time  when  I  must  speak  of  a  more 
personal  matter.  There  has  been  an  unfoldment  here, 
under  this  roof,  during  the  past  ten  years.  You  have 
grown  from  bo3Thood  to  manhood.  You  know  that  I 
have  given  you  a  home,  have  educated  you,  and  prepared 
you  for  a  life  of  usefulness,  but  you  do  not  comprehend 
my  view  of  the  case.  It  was  not  charity  nor  generosity 
that  moved  me  at  first,  but  the  law.  Justice  had  been 
outraged.  You  were  entitled  to  certain  conditions, 
but  were  denied  them.  You  were  bound  legally  to  a 
brute.  I  rescued  }tou  without  intending  to  do  more 
than  if  I  were  opening  the  cage -door  and  liberating 
an  animal.  But  Fate — Law — your  personal  God — or- 
dained a  different  process.  You  were  thrust  into  my 
orbit  when  I  was  a  disappointed  man  who  covered  his 
wounds  with  the  cloak  of  hauteur.  You  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  my  past  life — of  what  I  have  suffered.  You 
do  not  know  of  the  brief  revival  of  m}^  hopes  when  at 
last  I  perceived,  in  my  poor  blindness,  that  my  sister's 
child  was  something  human.  I  have  learned  much  in 
watching  you  when  you  did  not  know  my  purpose. 
Unconsciousty  you  have  grown  into  my  heart — you 
have  taken  little  Jimmy's  place  in  my  future  plans." 

The  judge  paced  the  length  of  the  portico,  his  silk 

1 08 


Martin    Brook 

handkerchief  in  his  right  hand.  Martin  sat  immov- 
able, a  new  thought  sweeping  over  him.  Heir  to  Elm- 
hurst! 

Judge  Northcote  thrust  his  handkerchief  back  into 
his  pocket  and  resumed  his  seat.  He  was  calm  once 
more. 

"Martin/'  he  said,  "it  is  my  intention  to  make  you 
my  successor/ ' 

Martin  could  not  speak.     His  breath  came  quick. 

"  There  is  no  one  on  earth  to  question  me,"  the  judge 
went  on.  "I  am  depriving  no  one  of  a  right.  My 
sister  will  be  your  loving  mother;  and  by  this  change, 
making  both  of  you  happy,  I  shall  go  on  in  the  monotony 
of  my  life  with  a  renewal  of  interest.  I  don't  care  what 
church  you  join ;  an  orderly  method  is  essential.  Adopt 
the  creed  you  can  accept.  Go  into  affairs — the  building 
of  a  character  befitting  your  station.  I  have  but  one 
request  to  make  and  one  condition  to  impose :  you  will 
take  the  honored  name  of  Northcote,  settle  permanently 
at  Elmhurst,  and  so  conduct  yourself  as  to  maintain 
the  dignity  of  our  house.  Are  you  willing  to  become 
my  son?" 

The  judge  held  out  his  hand.  Martin  rose  and  grasp- 
ed it. 

"Father!"  he  whispered. 


Chapter  X 

Five  3Tears  may  span  an  almost  infinite  variety  of 
change  in  every  human  life.  It  has  been  shown  what 
these  five  years  have  done  for  Martin  Brook,  in  his 
movement  from  bondage  to  youthful  independence — 
from  the  rags  and  cruelty  of  legal  serfdom  to  the  lux- 
ury and  love  of  Elmhurst — since  the  time  he  first  met 
Helen  Stafford.  And  yet  his  growth  has  been  con- 
fined to  the  narrow  limits  of  a  village  and  the  limita- 
tions of  a  single  mind  —  George  Northcote's  cultured 
and  expanded  mind,  but  none  the  less  a  single,  indi- 
vidual mind.  He  had  not  learned  the  benefits  of  contact 
with  the  world. 

The  experiences  that  came  to  Helen  Stafford  during 
these  same  five  years  were  very  different.  She  was 
older  than  Martin  by  two  years  or  more,  but  wiser  in 
worldly  ways  beyond  the  mere  measure  of  time.  She 
had  unconsciously  revealed  this  fact,  and  he  had  per- 
ceived it  at  their  one  meeting.  Now  she  was  home 
again,  with  five  years  of  life  abroad  added  to  the  knowl- 
edge she  then  possessed  —  five  years  of  such  freedom 
as  an  invalid  mother  and  a  succession  of  paid  chaperons 
alone  could  make  possible  to  her.  She  had  remained 
in  Paris  long  after  Colonel  Stafford's  official  duties 
in  England  were  ended,  completing  her  studies  as  the 
mood  seized  her ;  and  now  was  home,  in  Albany,  once 
more,  a  stranger  in  her  own  land.  The  mother's  in- 
fluence had  long  since  ceased  to  be  more  than  a  nega- 
tive approval  of  the  daughter's  positive  will ;  and  here, 

no 


Martin    Brook 

where  conventional  life  was  not  always  observed, 
she  astounded  the  more  careful  matrons  by  her  un- 
conventional daring. 

Men  admired  her ;  mothers  with  unmarried  daughters 
looked  askance  at  her.  Yet  there  was  never  a  whisper 
of  scandal  against  her,  although,  while  it  was  known 
that  she  had  declined  several  offers  of  marriage,  she 
frankly  admitted  that  her  pleasures  lay  in  realizing 
her  power  over  men.  She  confessed  a  weariness  of 
a  society  that  was  disposed  to  question  her  right  to 
freedom,  and  wished  to  be  away  from  what  she  called 
the  provincialism  of  her  home. 

She  was  in  this  mood  when  a  letter  came  from  her 
aunt  inviting  her  to  visit  at  the  rectory.  As  she  turned 
the  invitation  over  in  her  mind,  she  mused :  "  Per- 
haps this  is  a  happy  escape  from  being  bored  to 
death.' '  Her  former  visit  had  been  so  brief  that  only 
the  faintest  recollection  of  it  lingered.  She  had  entire- 
ly forgotten  Martin  Brook. 

She  wrote  to  Mrs.  Coulter,  accepting  the  proffered 
hospitality.  To  her  mind,  the  visit  was  the  merest 
incident,  but  to  the  people  of  Sandy  Hill  her  presence 
was  an  event.  She  thrilled  the  little  village  with  her 
startling  personality  and  her  indifference  to  public 
opinion,  and  she  accepted  or  declined  the  invitations 
of  the  society  leaders  as  the  whim  seized  her.  The 
matrons  pronounced  her  "very  peculiar";  the  girls 
admired  her  as  a  model  of  fashion;  the  men  said  she 
was  not  beautiful,  but  bewildering.  Yet  in  spite  of 
this  reception  she  remained  for  some  time  apart  from 
their  life  and  declined  to  join  the  social  set  in  their 
small  diversions. 

Mrs.  Coulter  could  not  conceal  her  distress  at  Helen's 
attitude.  This  startling  niece  was  not  like  the  girl  she 
once  knew,  for  now  she  was  not  willing,  of  all  things, 
to  be  entertained.     The  rector,  when  his  wife  appealed 

ill 


Martin    Brook 

to  him,  conceded  his  inability  to  cope  with  so  perplex- 
ing a  problem.  Helen's  sojourn  in  Paris,  he  admitted, 
had  evidently  produced  a  marked  effect. 

Meanwhile,  the  only  pleasure  Helen  asked  for  at 
the  hands  of  her  friends  was  the  inexplicable  one  of 
being  left  to  herself.  If  she  chose  to  drive  about  in 
the  pony  carriage  —  a  luxury  afforded  Mrs.  Coulter 
through  the  kindness  of  the  judge,  who  appreciated 
her  care  of  the  needy  parishioners  —  or  to  remain  in- 
doors, her  will  was  law;  and  a  law,  too,  of  her  own 
making.  She  declared  that  the  rectory  was  a  most 
charming  place  in  the  summer,  and  her  favorite  spot, 
these  hot  summer  days,  was  a  corner  in  her  aunt's  sit- 
ting-room, where  the  wide,  low  windows  were  em- 
bowered in  roses. 

And  here,  on  an  old  colonial  settle,  with  high  carved 
back  and  curved  arms,  on  a  mass  of  cushions,  gathered 
from  about  the  house  and  piled  luxuriantly  around  her, 
Helen  was  lying  one  morning,  the  perfume  of  roses 
borne  in  upon  her  through  the  open  lattice.  A  gentle 
breeze  stirred  the  dark  curls  that  clustered  upon  her 
ears  and  forehead  and  swept  in  masses  across  her 
breast.  Indolent  and  sensuous  in  this  abandonment 
to  the  comfort  of  the  moment,  she  was  found  by  Mrs. 
Coulter.  Her  morning  gown  was  like  a  web  of  silk, 
clinging  to  every  outline  of  her  full  figure.  Her  arms 
were  bare,  except  for  the  puffs  on  the  shoulders,  and 
the  firm  white  neck  was  partly  covered  by  a  long  silk 
scarf  with  fringed  ends.  Her  small  feet  were  encased 
in  low  slippers  and  crossed  up  the  ankle  with  white 
ribbons. 

"Why,  my  dear  Helen,"  her  aunt  said,  displeased 
at  the  girl's  appearance,  "  don't  3Tou  think  it  would  be 
cooler  if  I  drew  the  shades?" 

"  Xo,  no,"  Helen  protested.  "  I  revel  in  this  delicious 
sunlight.     See,  isn't  this  coloring  exquisite?" 

112 


Martin    Brook 

"It  is  rather  warm,  I  should  say,"  Mrs.  Coulter 
urged. 

"I  love  the  warmth/'  Helen  declared.  "Leave  them 
as  they  are,  please.  The  rose-bushes  give  shade  enough. 
I  really  believe  I  am  a  soul  in  the  wrong  body.  I  must 
have  been  barbaric  once."     She  closed  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  like  you  to  say  such  things,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Coulter  said,  moving  around,  adjusting  the  furniture 
where  Helen  had  shifted  it  from  the  formal  order. 

"No?"  Helen  said,  her  eyes  half  open,  and  one  fair 
arm  tossed  above  her  head,  the  flowing  sleeve  of  her 
morning  gown  fallen  away  from  it.  "How  very  ener- 
getic you  are,  aunty.  But  you  have  a  delightfully 
artistic  eye.  That  combination  of  color  in  the  vines 
is  charming." 

"That  was  not  my  work,"  Mrs.  Coulter  replied,  with 
slight  asperity.  "The  former  rector's  wife  planted 
the  garden." 

"I  should  like  to  have  known  the  woman,"  Helen 
said,  rearranging  the  folds  of  her  gown  across  her  breast. 

"  I  was  wondering,  Helen,  if  you  would  like  a  drive 
on  the  river -road,"  Mrs.  Coulter  suggested,  a  slight 
frown  on  her  placid  face  which  seldom  showed  dis- 
pleasure.    "I  have  some  parish  visits  to  make." 

"Please,  aunty,"  Helen  pleaded,  in  her  authoritative 
way,  "don't  think  of  entertaining  me.  Let  me  enjoy 
this  blissful  quiet.  I  never  before  realized  the  meaning 
of  June  weather.  Let  me  get  my  fill  of  it,  while  you 
and  Uncle  Rufus  look  after  your  dear  parishioners." 

"But,  my  dear  Helen,"  Mrs.  Coulter  protested, 
"there  is  something  more  than  that  to  do.  There 
are  people  you  should  meet.  I  have  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Wright,  asking  after  you,  and  telling  of  an  accident 
she  has  suffered,  which  prevents  her  calling  here  at 
present.  She  has  had  the  misfortune  to  sprain  her 
ankle.  " 

H  113 


Martin    Brook 

"I  am  sorry,."  Helen  said,  with  polite  indifference. 

"She  is  my  dearest  friend/'  Mrs.  Coulter  remarked. 
"  I  must  call  on  her.  Won't  }7ou  go,  too?  She  is  Judge 
Northcote's  sister,  you  know — at  Elmhurst;  that  charm- 
ing place  you  admired  so  much." 

"  Elmhurst  ?  Northcote  ? "  Helen  mused.  Then 
laughing  lightly :  "  Yes?  What  has  become  of  that  bo}' 
— the  one  who  used  to  live  there — I  forget  his  name. 
The  one'  who  came  to  that  little  party."  Her  eyes 
twinkled  with  a  revived  recollection  of  that  scene — 
the  boy's  unsuppressed  look  of  admiration  of  her.  She 
lifted  her  hands  and  deftly  plied  her  fingers  among 
the  coils  of  her  hair. 

"Do  \Tou  mean  Mr.  Brook?"  Mrs.  Coulter  prompted, 
a  trace  of  reproof  in  her  tone. 

"Yes,  that  is  it.  Mr.  Brook?"  Helen  laughed.  "I 
had  utterly  forgotten  his  name.  I  remember  him 
as—" 

"You  will  have  a  chance  to  refresh  your  memory, 
my  dear,"  Mrs.  Coulter  said,  with  the  resentment  of 
a  village  matron  who  hears  a  local  criticism.  "Mr. 
Brook  is  the  most  promising  young  man  in  Sandy 
Hill.  Mr.  Coulter  says  the}7  are  ahead}7  mentioning 
his  name  in  connection  with  the  Legislature,  and  that, 
you  know,  is  the  first  step  towards  prominence  in  pub- 
lic life." 

"A  prodigy?  How  entertaining.  Tell  me  about 
him,  dean7.  Does  he  still  wear  his  hands  so  awk- 
wardly?" 

"I  shall  say  nothing  about  him,  Helen,  if  }7ou  talk 
in  that  way." 

"Don't  be  angry.  Come,  tell  me  more,"  and  Helen 
nestled  into  an  attitude  of  comfortable  listening,  her 
cheek,  on  which  the  flush  of  the  long  sea-voyage  by 
sailing-vessel  still  lingered,  resting  in  her  firm  round 
hand. 

114 


Martin    Brook 

"Mr.  Brook  has  a  fine  future  in  prospect.  We  are 
proud  of  him,  and  Mr.  Northcote  appears  to  favor  him 
as  his  heir  since — "  Mrs.  Coulter  began  with  confi- 
dence, but  Helen  interrupted  her,  leaning  forward : 

"Why,  this  is  growing  romantic!" 

"It  is  mere  rumor,  of  course/'  her  aunt  continued, 
with  a  little  nod  to  quiet  her  conscience  at  revealing 
something  Mr.  Coulter  had  cautioned  her  not  to  speak 
of ,  "  but  there  are  reasons  for  thinking  that  the  report 
is  true.  At  any  rate,  Martin  has  made  wonderful  ad- 
vancement/' she  asserted,  earnestly.  Then,  reaching 
firmer  ground,  she  told  of  the  letters  in  the  Sentinel, 
which  everybody  had  discussed,  and  ended  by  saying : 
"Mr.  Coulter  told  me  that  Mr.  Graham  was  left  in  a 
most  embarrassing  predicament/ ' 

"Graham?  Do  you  mean  that  Sidney  Graham?" 
Helen  asked,  more  interested,  her  chin  resting  in  both 
palms.  "Why,  I  recall  him  very  distinctly,  now  you 
speak  of  him.  Quite  a  well-dressed  boy,  with  plenty 
of  confidence  in  himself."  She  settled  back  to  a  con- 
templative posture,  a  dreamy  look  in  her  eyes.  "  And 
you  say  that  Elmhurst  may  belong  to  this  Martin 
Brook?  Rather  a  pleasing  sound — that  name.  Elm- 
hurst must  be  a  splendid  place  for  entertaining  during 
the  summer.  Is  the  house  often  filled  with  people — 
guests  from  a  distance,  you  know?  Is  Judge  North- 
cote still  reputed  to  be  wealthy?" 

"The  one  serious  criticism  we  make  of  the  judge 
is  that  he  rarely  entertains,"  Mrs.  Coulter  replied, 
confused  at  the  volley  of  questions.  "He  is  very 
wealthy — and  benevolent.  He  is  quite  fond  of  your 
Uncle  Rufus  and — " 

"Yes,  I  presume  so.  The  church  and  your  house 
show  that;  but  Judge  Northcote  must  be  growing  old," 
the  girl  said,  softly.  "He  is  still  unmarried?  Has  he 
no  idea  of — " 

115 


Martin    Brook 

"Oh,  the  judge  will  never  marry,"  Mrs.  Coulter  re- 
plied, smiling.     "  He  is  fifty  now. " 

Helen  flung  her  arms  above  her  head  on  the  cushions. 
Presently  she  said:  "There  are,  of  course,  near  rel- 
atives? Mr.  Northcote's  family  connections  are  large, 
no  doubt?" 

"Only  Mrs.  Wright,  his  sister,  the  lady  I  spoke  of 
a  moment  ago." 

"  Does  she — is  she  friendly  to  this  young  Mr.  Brook?" 
Helen  asked,  quickly. 

"She  loves  him  as  her  own  son,"  Mrs.  Coulter  said, 
positively. 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"He  is  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  I  believe." 

The  girl  took  on  a  pose  of  indifference. 

"Tell  me  about  the  other — about  Mr.  Graham,"  she 
demanded. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  said,  my  dear,"  Airs.  Coulter 
returned,  with  a  drawing  down  of  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"  Oh, "  said  Helen,  rising,  with  a  look  of  decision  in 
her  face. 

She  went  over  to  the  window  that  commanded  a  view 
of  Elmhurst.  "No  mistress  of  that  grand  place?"  she 
whispered  to  herself. 

"There  are  the  ponies  coming,"  Mrs.  Coulter  said, 
glancing  out  through  the  open  window.  "Don't  you 
think  you  would  like  to  go  with  me,  dear,  on  my  rounds 
this  morning?  If  you  hurry,  we  can  get  back  before 
the  sun  is  too  high." 

"I  am  ready — for  anything!"  Helen  said,  turning 
quickly  and  throwing  her  arms  wide  with  a  sweeping 
gesture.  "Anything,  my  dear!"  She  kissed  Mrs. 
Coulter  demonstratively  and  hastened  to  her  room  to 
dress  for  the  drive. 

As  Mrs.  Coulter  had  assured  her,  the  drive  was  indeed 

116 


Martin    Brook 

a  delightful  one,  as  they  made  the  circuit  of  the  little 
place.  Helen,  of  course,  remained  in  the  carriage,  while 
Mrs.  Coulter  did  her  calls  of  charitable  duty.  How- 
ever, the  families  needing  her  care  were  not  numerous ; 
the  work  was  soon  performed,  and  then  came  a  breezy 
hour  on  the  river-road,  within  the  shade  of  the  wood. 

In  the  great  bend,  where  the  view  from  the  highlands 
was  well  worth  pausing  to  see,  they  drew  up  to  admire 
the  landscape,  and  just  at  that  moment  a  man  came 
rapidly  towards  them,  mounted  on  an  iron-gray  horse, 
which  started  proudly  and  curvetted  at  sight  of  the 
carriage. 

The  rider  saluted  the  ladies. 

"Mr.  Brook !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Coulter.  "I  am  very 
glad  you  happened  this  way/' 

"  It  was  fortunate  for  me,"  Martin  smiled.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  a  more  perfect  day?" 

"  Helen,  you  remember  Mr.  Brook,  I  am  sure.  Do 
you  need  a  second  introduction  to  my  niece,  Martin?" 

"  I  certainly  do  not,"  Martin  said,  earnestly,  bowing 
low.  He  sprang  from  his  horse,  flinging  the  reins 
over  his  arm,  and  went  to  the  carriage.  Helen  saw 
the  old-time  look  of  admiration  leap  into  his  eyes. 

"lam  not  vain  enough  to  fancy  you  have  remem- 
bered me  all  these  years,"  Helen  said,  holding  out 
her  hand,  with  most  deceiving  shyness.  Then,  as 
Martin  grasped  it :  "  Are  you  quite  sure  you  haven't 
forgotten  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  remembered  you  always,  Miss  Stafford," 
he  said,  seriously.  "  There  have  not  been  so  many 
events  in  my  quiet  life  that  I  could  forget  you."  His 
face  took  on  a  merry  look.  "  Especially  our  first  con- 
versation, which  was,  unfortunately,  my  only  one  with 
you.     Don't  you  recall  my  volubility?" 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  bewitching  wrinkle  of  the 
brows. 

117 


Martin    Brook 

Martin  looked  straight  into  her  eyes.  Was  she 
making  sport  of  him?  Did  she  mean  that  she  remem- 
bered how  stupid  he  was  that  night  of  the  party? 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  better  to  forget  some  things — 
the  anno3Tance  one  brings  on  one's  self,  for  example/' 
he  remarked,  laughingly. 

Helen  shook  her  head.  "  I  really  don't  know  what 
you  mean,"  she  said,  with  quick  perception  of  his 
thoughts.  Martin  remained  silent,  searching  her  face 
with  frank  and  fearless  show  of  pleasure. 

Airs.  Coulter  broke  in,  cheerily:  "Isn't  this  sunlight 
on  the  river  perfect^  delightful  ?     I  am  glad  I  am  alive ! ' ' 

"  So  am  I,"  Martin  said. 

"  Glad  that  aunty  is  alive?"  Helen  asked,  saucily. 

"Yes — and  that  I — that  we  all  are,"  he  said,  point- 
edly. "  By-the-way,  Airs.  Coulter,  1  heard  Airs.  Wright 
planning  to  call  on  you  and  Miss  Stafford,  but  she — " 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Coulter  spoke  quickly,  "  and  we  intended 
to  call  on  her  this  morning,  but  we  were  so  interested 
in  the  drive.  It  is  too  late  now.  But  please  tell  her 
we  shall  do  so  soon."  Then,  with  a  little  gesture  of 
pleading:  "Won't  you  come  and  see  us?  Air.  Coulter 
was  sa3Ting  only  yesterday  that  you  were  neglectful. 
Can't  you  come  this  afternoon  and  take  tea?" 

"  Thank  you  and  him,"  said  Alartin,  again  looking 
into  Helen's  eyes.  "  If  3Tou  desire  me  to  do  so,  1  will 
come." 

Helen  bowed  her  head  in  assent,  a  glance  and  a  smile 
answering  him  more  full}7  than  words. 

"  Good-b37e,  then,  until  five  o'clock,"  Airs.  Coulter 
said,  as  she  chirruped  to  the  ponies  and  the}7  started 
off. 

Alartin  stood  by  the  road-side,  looking  in  their  direc- 
tion, until  long  after  they  had  disappeared.  The  horse 
pawed  impatiently  and  rubbed  his  head  on  his  master's 
shoulder.     Alartin    mounted    and    rode    slowly    away. 

118 


Martin    Brook 

"The  3^ears  have  made  no  change/'  he  said  aloud, 
"except  to  add  more  charms."  He  spoke  to  the  horse 
and  dashed  along,  a  new  thought  aroused  in  his  mind. 
"  She  will  not  find  me  now  a  bashful,  ungainly  boy." 

Mrs.  Coulter  meanwhile  was  saying,  "Do  you 
think  1  over-estimated  the  man,  Helen?"  The  girl, 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  answered  them,  not 
her  aunt : 

"Evidently  a  gentleman  —  rides  well  —  fine  eyes  — 
good-looking  —  carries  himself  properly  —  seems  to  be 
athletic—" 

The  ponies  started  at  a  scurrying  rabbit.  Mrs. 
Coulter  pulled  them  in.  Helen's  words  had  been  lost 
in  the  rattle  of  the  wheels  on  the  stony  road.  "I  beg 
your  pardon  ;  you  were  saying — " 

"Oh,  nothing,  dear." 

But  she  was  thinking  many  thoughts  that  kept  the 
color  in  her  cheeks;  a  color  that  remained  even  after 
the  tea  was  served  that  afternoon  on  the  vine-clad 
porch  of  the  rectory.  For,  as  she  studied  the  man  op- 
posite her  at  table,  there  was  not  a  suggestion  of  the 
boy  she  remembered  meeting  years  before;  there  was 
no  annoying  sense  to  her  in  his  presence.  He  seemed 
restful,  cultured,  manly.  He  was  quite  in  accord  with 
her  idea  of  a  gentleman.  And  Elmhurst  was  certainly 
a  lovely  place. 

Mr.  Coulter  was  regretfully  obliged  to  excuse  him- 
self, because  of  some  church  meeting ;  and  Mrs.  Coulter 
found  occasion  to  leave  the  young  people  to  themselves, 
but  notwithstanding  this  deprivation,  Martin  found 
that  Helen's  experiences  abroad  were  themes  sufficient 
for  the  time,  since  he  proved  to  be  with  her,  as  with 
the  judge,  a  ready  listener. 

"  But  there  is  no  place  like  this,"  Helen  declared,  in 
concluding  a  description  of  some  foreign  scene.  "I 
love  the  Hudson." 

119 


Martin    Brook 

"  Could  37ou  be  contented  here  ?"  Martin  asked. 

"  In  America?  Why,  1  am  an  American,  you  know/' 
she  said. 

"  I  mean  in  the  smaller  life  of  such  a  place  as  this?'' 

"  Oh,  one  has  a  great  deal  to  choose  from/'  she  an- 
swered.    "  The  world  comes  to  those  who  entertain  it." 

The}7  were  still  discussing  Sandy  Hill  when  Mrs. 
Coulter  reappeared. 

"  We  were  talking  of  the  beauties  of  the  place,  Mrs. 
Coulter,"  Martin  said,  "and  1  am  sorry  you  do  not 
like  the  saddle,  for  there  are  so  many  pretty  scenes 
about  here." 

"Like  it?  But  think  how  1  look  on  horseback,  Mr. 
Brook.     Now,  if  I  were  as  lithe  as  Helen — " 

"  WTe  have  some  animals  at  Elmhurst  that  I  am  sure 
will  please  Miss  Stafford,  if  she  cares  to  ride,"  Martin 
ventured. 

"Oh,  don't  let  my — well,  my  tastes — interfere  with 
Helen's  enjoyments,"  Mrs.  Coulter  urged.  "  I  natu- 
rally prefer  the  carriage." 

f'You  are  always  so  unselfish,  aunty,"  Helen  said, 
sweetly.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  in  the  saddle,  Mr. 
Brook,  and  the  sooner  the  better,  if  my  tastes  alone  are 
to  be  consulted." 

"I  place  the  stables  and  Enoch  at  your  command," 
Martin  replied. 

"  Enoch?    Must  I  join  the  throng  of  the  prophets?" 

"  We  will  reverse  the  order  of  things,  and  make  this 
prophet  our  follower,  if  you  consent,"  he  suggested. 

"I  prefer  the  modern  way,"  she  said,  meeting  his 
gaze  with  a  smile  that  sent  his  pulses  bounding. 

"Then  if  my  weather-wise  Enoch  promises  a  fair 
day  to-morrow,  will  you  let  me  show  }Tou  what  I 
meant  by  our  beautiful  scenery?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

That  night,  Martin,  his  arrangements  made  for  the 

120 


Martin   Brook 

coming  day,  and  Enoch's  solemn  pledge  of  "mighty 
fine  wedder,  Marse  Martin/'  to  encourage  him,  was  not 
so  peaceful  in  his  sleep  as  a  healthy  young  man  should 
be.  He  tossed  and  tumbled,  but  finally  dozed  off  and 
dreamed  that  his  awkwardness  had  returned  in  the 
form  of  a  ghost,  and  that  a  dazzling  woman  was  talk- 
ing to  him;  but  to  save  his  life  he  couldn't  catch  her 
words.  They  seemed  like  a  mocking  laugh,  which 
somehow  appeared  to  cause  Mary  to  be  distressed. 

But  Helen,  as  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  day's 
events,  found  nothing  in  them  to  disturb  her  rest. 


Chapter  XI 

As  Martin  came  down  the  street  towards  the  rectory 
on  his  iron-gray  the  next  morning,  he  saw  Mary  Whit- 
taker  coming  along  the  walk,  on  her  way  to  Elmhurst. 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  bright  smile,  and  stop- 
ped, just  as  Enoch  passed  by  on  a  hack — across  whose 
broad  flanks  hung  a  pair  of  bulging  saddle-bags — lead- 
ing Hebe,  the  pride  of  the  judge's  stables,  under  a  side- 
saddle. 

Martin  drew  up  and  spoke  to  Mary,  on  whose  face  a 
half-questioning  look  now  checked  the  smile.  Martin 
realized  with  a  sudden  twinge  of  conscience  that  he 
had  utterly  forgotten  Mary  in  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Helen  Stafford.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  asked 
her  to  go  with  them;  yet  in  the  same  instant  he  ad- 
mitted secretly  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  go.  But 
there  was  the  consciousness  of  a  discourtesy — almost 
a  disloyalty — to  the  girl  who  was  never  selfishly  for- 
getful of  him ;  and  the  fact  that  he  really  did  not  wish 
her,  or  any  one,  to  share  his  day's  pleasure  with  Miss 
Stafford  stung  him. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  take  Miss  Stafford 
for  a  ride  up  the  river-road." 

"I'm  sure  she  will  enjoy  it,"  Mary  replied,  quietly, 
"Miss  Stafford  looks  well  in  her  habit.  I  saw  her 
on  the  rectory  porch  as  I  came  by,  and  she  told  me  she 
was  going  to  ride." 

"Did  Miss  Stafford  say  she  was  going  with  me?" 

"No,"  said  Alary. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  met  her — met  Mrs.  Coulter  and  Miss 

122  '  \ 


Martin    Brook 

Stafford — yesterday,  and — "     He   hesitated,    shifting 
in  his  saddle. 

"I  hope  you'll  have  a  nice  time,  Martin.  The  day 
is  just  right  for  a  good  view — so  clear  and  cool." 

She  was  smiling  again  when  she  resumed  her  walk, 
and  Martin  did  not  see  the  look  in  her  eyes — a  look 
that  would  have  revealed  more  of  anxiety  for  his  wel- 
fare than  of  disappointment  at  his  neglect. 

But  Helen  Stafford  had  perceived  something  in 
Mary's  manner  during  the  short  time  of  her  stay  in 
the  village,  and  her  casual  renewal  of  their  acquaint- 
ance. She  had  already  discovered  that  her  own  indif- 
ference to  Sandy  Hill  was  no  criterion  to  the  interest 
the  young  people  felt  for  each  other  in  this  little  sphere ; 
that  love  and  its  attendant  emotions  were  as  vital  here 
as  in  the  salons  of  Paris;  and  in  her  review  of  those 
former  days,  now  that  she  had  met  Martin  Brook  and 
learned  of  his  position  in  the  village — had  heard  from 
Mrs.  Coulter  of  his  prospects  and  ambitions — she  had 
cast  about  for  the  threads  of  a  romance  she  knew  must 
exist  somewhere  in  his  young  life.  She  had  decided 
that  Mary,  of  all  the  girls  who  had  called  on  her  since 
she  came  here,  was  the  one  most  likely  to  interest  such 
a  man  as  Martin  Brook;  and  since  he  had  chanced 
to  re-enter  her  orbit,  the  presence  of  a  personality  like 
Mary  's  added  a  dash  of  piquancy  to  the  thought  of 
making  him  concerned  in  herself. 

Helen  had  watched  Mary  as  she  went  along  to  the 
meeting  with  Martin,  and  had  understood  the  scene 
with  instinctive  comprehension,  as  though  the  words 
were  audible  to  her.  So,  when  Martin  reached  the 
rectory,  she  was  prepared  for  her  part.  She  wished 
first  to  be  assured,  in  her  own  mind,  that  the  influence  of 
her  power  over  men  was  extended  to  him;  and  then, 
before  committing  herself,  to  be  confirmed  in  the  fact 
that  he  was,  indeed,  the  heir  to  Elmhurst. 

123 


Martin    Brook 

Martin's  momentary  feeling  of  regret  at  his  unpre- 
meditated slight  of  Mary,  who  had  hitherto  been  his 
companion  on  such  little  excursions,  was  lost  in  the 
effect  Helen  produced  on  him  as  she  came  down  to  the 
gate,  with  the  long  skirt  of  her  riding-dress  thrown 
gracefully  over  her  arm,  her  head  crowned  by  a  red 
velvet  flat  Scotch  hat  with  a  puffed  edge,  set  well  back 
on  her  dark  curls. 

"  Good-morning/ '  he  said,  alighting  and  taking  her 
hand.  "I've  planned  a  day  up  the  river,  and  Enoch 
has  a  few  things  in  the  bags  to  prevent  our  starving." 

"That  will  be  delightful,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  as  he 
lifted  her  to  the  saddle.     "  Good-bye,  aunty." 

Mrs.  Coulter  had  sanctioned  her  going,  and  was 
standing  on  the  porch.  Martin  raised  his  hat  to  her 
and  sprang  into  his  seat.  Enoch  was  already  disap- 
pearing in  the  direction  of  the  chosen  by-road. 

A  by-road  known  to  those  whose  love  of  nature  took 
them  from  the  dusty  highway,  with  its  heavy  carts  and 
jolting  stages,  out  into  the  shady  woods  —  a  scarcely 
perceptible  track  along  the  highlands  bordering  the 
river,  where  the  horses'  feet  were  muffled  in  the  damp 
mold  of  countless  years  —  a  road  unused  and  wind- 
ing about  with  the  uncertaint}^  of  ever  finding  any 
place,  and  yet  sure  to  lead  to  the  most  entrancing  spots 
in  all  the  region.  A  road,  too,  that  brought  them  first 
to  a  place  which  opened  up  a  view  of  valley,  river,  hills, 
and  sky — an  old,  abandoned  rollway  and  a  deserted 
mill — a  place  suggestive  of  activities  now  unknown. 

There  was  something  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
that  caused  Helen  to  draw  rein  and  sit  silently  gazing 
about  her,  with  a  strange  sensation  of  awe  in  the  soli- 
tude. 

"  This  is  a  familiar  spot  to  me,"  Martin  said,  gravely. 
"I  have  met  with  the  most  extraordinary  experiences 
of  my  life  right  here." 

124 


Martin    Brook 

"Tell  me  of  them/'  Helen  commanded. 

"  They  may  not  interest  you/'  he  said. 

"  You  interest  me,"  she  replied. 

"Do  I ?  Can  you  see  in  me  something  more  than  a 
stammering  boy,  awkward  and  bashful?" 

"Yes." 

"Old  Enoch  saved  my  life,  down  there/'  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  pool. 

"Your  life?    How?" 

He  told  her  of  that  day;  and  then,  scarcely  above 
a  whisper,  spoke  of  that  other  scene — his  night  of  re- 
ligious agony  and  the  dawn  of  Truth. 

"This  is  not  a  very  cheerful  theme,"  he  concluded. 
"I  am  still  in  doubt  on  many  points,  although  I  am 
a  Methodist  by  profession."  He  waited  a  moment, 
expecting  her  to  speak;  but  her  face  was  averted. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "do  you  believe  in  a  personal 
God,  who  rules  our  lives?  Do  you  object  to  Method- 
ism? Since  meeting  you,  I  have  felt  that  you  were 
brought  into  my  life  for  a  purpose — " 

The  horses  gave  a  frightened  start,  as  an  object 
swooped  before  them  on  the  wing  and  disappeared 
in  the  woods  beyond. 

"What  is  that?"  Helen  cried,  recovering  her  seat 
instantly. 

"Only  a  big  hawk,"  Martin  said. 

"Let  us  go,"  Helen  said;  "the  place  seems  un- 
canny." 

She  touched  her  horse  with  the  bridle.  Hebe,  fleet 
and  sure-footed,  carried  her  away  like  the  wind.  Martin 
overtook  her,  but  the  subject  foremost  in  his  mind  was 
not  renewed.  "Will  she  approve  of  Methodism?"  he 
asked  himself. 

They  continued  for  some  time  along  the  wooded 
path,  without  his  finding  opportunity  to  speak  of  more 
than  objective  things,  until  at  last  they  came  upon  a 

125 


Martin    Brook 

cosey  nook  in  the  forest,  where  Enoch  stood,  bowing 
and  grinning,  as  he  pointed  to  the  luncheon  spread 
on  the  white  linen  that  concealed  a  flat  rock  he  had 
selected  for  a  table. 

"How  is  the  spring,  Enoch?"  Martin  asked,  dis- 
mounting and  helping  Helen  down,  while  the  servant 
tied  the  horses  in  a  shady  spot. 

"Dat  spring,  sah,  am  fine.  Fo'  gracious,  I  hain't 
'sperienced  no  sich  day  for  yeahs.  Seems  lak  de  good 
ole  times,  Marse  Martin." 

"A  spring?"  Helen  asked.  "Hark!  Is  that  the 
sound  of  falling  water?" 

"Yes,"  said  Martin.  "There  is  the  most  delicious 
spring  over  yonder  in  all  the  country.  Would  you  like 
to  see  it?  Here,  Enoch,  give  me  that  pail.  Til  get 
the  water." 

"Yis,  sah,"  Enoch  grinned,  handing  him  the  pail. 
"I  reckon  Ts  needed  here  1110'n  I  is  dar,  under  de 
condition  of  circumstances."  As  Helen  hurried  away, 
guided  by  the  sound  of  the  murmuring  water,  Martin 
following  with  the  swinging  pail  and  calling  out  warn- 
ings about  the  tangled  roots  and  vines. 

"Oh,  how  perfectly  charming!"  Helen  exclaimed, 
when  they  came  with  unlooked-for  suddenness  upon 
the  miniature  falls  that  plunged  over  the  moss-grown 
rocks,  down  in  the  dell — a  busy  little  stream,  that  took 
on  all  the  manners  of  a  mountain  torrent,  pouring 
from  a  spring  in  the  river-bank,  and  dashing  in  tiny 
impetuousness  into  a  dark  pool  below.  The  basin 
was  in  shadow,  forming  a  mirror  of  its  calm  surface 
beyond  the  swirl  of  the  fall. 

"It's  called  the  'Cataract  of  the  Fairies ',"  Martin 
explained. 

"Yes?"  Helen  said,  bending  to  catch  the  sound.  "I 
can  hear  the  voices  of  the  little  folk." 

126 


Martin    Brook 

"Don't  trust  them/'  said  Martin.  "They  may  tell 
stories/' 

"  No;  they  are  too  near  nature  for  that  wickedness/' 
she  sighed. 

"  If  you  believe  in  them,  then,  let  me  fix  a  seat  here 
for  you,  where  we  can  listen  together.  They  may  have 
a  word  for  me,  too." 

He  rolled  a  log  near  the  brink  of  the  pool  and  Helen 
sat  down.  From  where  he  stood,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  pool,  he  could  see  the  reflection  of  her  face  in  the 
still  water.  He  could  not  see  his  own  eyes,  but  the 
angle  brought  him  in  line  for  hers. 

The  sunlight  sifted  through  the  dense  foliage  above 
them  and  lay  in  quivering,  golden  disks  on  the  moist 
leafage.  Birds  came  near  in  fearlessness,  and  seemed 
to  welcome  the  visitors  to  their  solitudes  with  songs 
of  understanding. 

"  There  is  a  legend  connected  wTith  this  spot,"  Martin 
continued.  "  The  Indian  maidens  used  to  come  here 
to  see  the  faces  of  their  true-lovers.  It  was  said  that 
if  they  made  the  wish,  with  eyes  closed,  and  then  sud- 
denly opened  them  on  the  pool,  they  could  see  the 
one — " 

'Do  you  believe  in  legends?"  Helen  asked,  gazing 
at  his  unconscious  reflection  in  the  pool. 

"I  believe  in  this  one,"  he  said,  smilingly.  "Please 
shut  your  eyes  and  try  it." 

He  moved  a  step,  thinking  to  bring  his  face  into  her 
view. 

"  Don't  stir!"  she  cried.     "  Stay  where  you  are." 

"If  you  command  it,"  he  said,  disappointed  and  mis- 
understanding her. 

She  rose.  "A  very  prett}^  story.  Enoch  must  be 
getting  anxious  about  us."  She  ran  back  to  the  place 
where  Enoch  stood.     "  Is  luncheon  served  ?' ' 

"Thank  you,  miss;  ebberything's  ready,  miss." 

127 


Martin   Brook 

They  seated  themselves  on  the  grass,  but  Martin's 
mind  was  not  on  the  luncheon.  "Miss  Stafford,  we 
must  plan  a  longer  trip.  1  know  a  place  above  Glens 
Falls—" 

A  crackling  in  the  bushes  caused  him  to  turn  his 
face  towards  the  sound,  just  as  Sidney  Graham  came 
in  sight. 

Graham  looked  handsome  in  his  shooting-suit,  com- 
plete in  every  detail.  He  carried  a  gun  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  his  dogs. 

Martin  stood  up  and  greeted  him  coolhT ;  but  Graham 
passed  him  with  a  quick  nod  and  went  briskty  up  to 
Helen. 

" Miss  Stafford !     This  is  a  most  pleasant  surprise." 

"Mr.  Graham,  I  believe?  It  is  a  long  time  since  we 
utbt" 

"It  has  seemed  long  to  me/'  he  said,  bowing  over 
her  hand. 

"Enoch,"  said  Martin,  indicating — "a  place  for  Mr. 
Graham."  Then,  with  restrained  courtesy:  "I  am 
sorry  we  have  provided  so  scant  a  luncheon." 

"Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself  about  me,"  Graham  re- 
turned, throwing  himself  on  the  ground  near  Helen, 
who  had  meanwhile  seated  herself  comfortably. 

"  1  am  sure  there  is  enough  for  all,"  Helen  said,  taking 
on  the  air  of  hostess,  and  serving  Graham  to  the  best 
of  everything  before  them.  She  perceived  the  coolness 
between  the  men,  and  looked  at  Martin,  trying  to  gain 
a  clew  to  the  situation.  Graham's  audacit}7  pleased 
her.  "Sirs.  Coulter's  story  of  the  letters  in  the  Sentinel 
came  to  her  mind,  but  that  seemed  to  her  an  insufficient 
reason  for  the  open  hostility  of  the  men.  In  her  eyes, 
Mr.  Graham  was  a  gentleman.  She  was  not  aware 
that  Judge  Northcote's  censure  meant  ostracism  in 
Sandy  Hill  society,  or  that  the  feeling  between  these 
men  was  of  life-long  standing. 

128 


Martin   Brook 

But  she  did  realize  that  the  pleasure  of  the  picnic 
was  marred.  The  forced  and  formal  conversation, 
and  Martin's  punctilious  observance  of  his  unwelcome 
duties  as  host  to  Graham,  caused  her  to  quickly  end 
the  scene. 

When  Enoch  brought  up  the  horses,  she  went  close 
to  Martin  and  said :  "  You  are  not  offended  at  me?" 

"  By  no  means ;  that  would  be  impossible/'  he  replied. 
"There  is  a  lack  of  friendliness  between  Mr.  Graham 
and  myself  that  makes  his  conduct  inexplicable/' 

"Yes?    1  fancied  all  persons  were  friends  in  Sandy 

Hill." 

"Unfortunately,  not  all/'  Martin  observed,  and 
stepped  aside  to  see  that  the  girths  were  secure  on  Hebe. 

Graham  improved  the  opportunity  and  came  to  Helen. 
"  Of  course  Mr.  Brook  has  shown  you  the  view  from 
the  hill  yonder?"  he  suggested. 

"  No,  we  have  reserved  that  for  another  day." 

"You  are  fond  of  the  saddle,  Miss  Stafford?"  he 
asked. 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  she  replied  with  enthusiasm.  "  When 
I  have  a  horse  like  this  one,  I  love  it." 

"That  is  a  fine  mount,"  he  said,  "but  I  think  I 
have  an  animal  you  would  like  even  better." 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  hardly-  possible,"  she  said,  patting 
Hebe's  glossy  neck. 

Martin  offered  her  his  hand  and  lifted  her  to  the  saddle. 
As  they  rode  away,  he  said  to  Graham :  "lam  sorry 
that  we  are  unable  to  offer  you  a  mount,  Mr.  Graham." 

"Thank  you,  I  prefer  to  walk,"  Graham  replied. 
But  he  watched  them  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 

"The  cad!"  he  muttered.  "I'll  take  that  girl  away 
from  him  before  I'm  a  week  older." 

And  his  boast  was  not  an  idle  one.  He  came  to  the 
rectory,  now  that  there  was  assurance  of  a  reception, 
with  the  same  indifference  to  the  manner  of  his  greeting 
I  129 


Martin    Brook 

by  the  Coulters,  or  regard  for  invitation,  that  he  had 
shown  the  day  in  the  grove.  The  superlative  presump- 
tion of  the  man  entertained  Helen  immensely.  Besides, 
he  did,  indeed,  have  a  finer  saddler  than  the  Northcote 
stables  boasted,  and  she  enjWed  her  rides  with  him. 
He  was  always  courteous  and  devoted.  His  appearance 
in  the  saddle  was  fine.  As  a  gentleman  of  leisure,  he 
was  able  to  place  himself  at  her  service  at  times  when 
Martin  was  engaged  with  business ;  and  she  still  was 
unable  to  understand  why  her  aunt  and  uncle  dis- 
approved of  him. 

It  was  equally  difficult  for  the  practical  Mrs.  Coulter 
to  comprehend  what  this  puzzling  girl  meant  by  her 
treatment  of  the  two  37oung  men. 

Helen  smiled  when  her  aunt  tried  to  talk  with  her  on 
the  subject.  "Why,  aunty,"  she  said,  "you  know 
you  were  urging  me,  only  a  few  days  ago,  to  show 
more  interest  in  3^our  people.  You  insisted  on  my 
being  entertained.     Mr.  Graham  does  that,  I  am  sure." 

"That  may  be,  my  dear/'  Mrs.  Coulter  replied,  "but 
do  you  think  it  advisable  to  be  so  often  seen  with  him?" 

"It  might  be  worse/'  Helen  said,  disregarding  her 
aunt's  allusion  to  local  gossip.  "  I  admit  he  is  at  times 
wearing  on  one's  nerves." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  that,  Helen,"  Mrs.  Coulter 
said,  "but  of  the  difference  between  the  two  gentle- 
men. Mr.  Brook  appeared  to  be  very  much  annoyed 
when  he  called  3^esterday  and  learned  you  were  again 
riding  with  Mr.  Graham.  It  has  happened  several 
times  just  so,  and  I  imagine  the  other  young  folks 
notice  it  too." 

"Yes?"  Helen  returned,  getting  up  from  her  favorite 
place  by  the  window  and  going  to  the  writing-desk, 
where  she  sat  silently  for  a  moment  looking  over  a 
list  of  names  she  had  written,  and  then  turned  to  Mrs. 
Coulter  with  her  sweetest  smile.    "  And  I  was  thinking, 

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Martin    Brook 

aunty  dear,  of  your  kindness  to  me  and  of  all  you  have 
done  to  make  my  visit  a  pleasant  one,  and  I  see  now  that 
3^ou  were  right  about  the  way  to  give  me  enjoyment/' 

"  Why,  Helen,  you  know  that  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to 
see  you  happy.  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  the  young 
people's  society.     I  know  they  all  like  you." 

"I  am  greatly  pleased  with  them,  and  I'm  sure  you 
won't  object  to  asking  a  few  of  them  here  to  a  little  party 
on  the  lawn.  The  nights  are  beautifully  moonlight 
now,  and  I  must  soon  return  home." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  it.     We  owe  that  courtesy — " 

"  We  can  easily  arrange  for  twenty,"  Helen  interrupt- 
ed.   "  That  includes  all  who  have  shown  me  courtesies." 

"  Let  me  see,"  her  aunt  began,  "  there  are  the — " 

"Oh,  here  is  the  list,"  Helen  replied.  "Most  of  them 
mean  only  names  to  me;  but  they  have  called."  She 
handed  the  slip  of  paper  to  Mrs.  Coulter. 

Her  aunt  read  the  list.  "I  see  that  you  begin  with 
Mr.  Graham,"  she  said,  pointedly. 

"He  lives  nearest  to  us,"  Helen  explained. 

"Mary  Whittaker  lives  nearer,  but  you  have  her 
name  near  the  last,"  her  aunt  remarked.  "If  proxim- 
ity is  the  rule — " 

"Not  with  a  woman,  deary,"  Helen  said.  "We 
think  of  them  by  the  rule  of  chance."  She  went  back 
to  the  settle  and  threw  herself  down  on  the  cushions. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  the  right  thing  to  do."  She 
lay  quietly  looking  out  across  the  landscape,  her  eyes 
half  closed,  and  then  asked,  suddenly,  "  Was  he  really 
annoyed?" 

Mrs.  Coulter  glanced  up  from  the  list.  "  What  did 
you  say,  dear?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Do  you  think  it  will  annoy  Uncle 
Rufus  to  have  the  people  here?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  He  enjoys  the  young  folks  im- 
mensely.    We  must  ask  them  informally,  for  to-morrow 

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Martin    Brook 

evening,  while  this  pleasant  weather  lasts.  I'll  drive 
around  this  morning.     Will  you  go  with  me,  dear?" 

" Certainly/'  she  said ;  "  shall  we  go  at  once?" 

"  Yes,  dear ;  and  I  am  amazed  at  your  intuitive  facul- 
ty of  absorbing  knowledge  concerning  people.  Really, 
Helen,  you  have  selected  just  the  right  ones,"  Airs. 
Coulter  said,  enthusiastically,  as  she  read  the  names 
over.  "  You  seem  to  be  an  adept  in  bringing  harmonious 
people  together.  I  will  add  a  few  names,  for  my  own 
sake,  and  the  list  will  be  complete." 

"As  you  please,"  Helen  replied.  "Did  you  never 
discover  that  it  is  easier  to  entertain  those  who  enter- 
tain themselves?  1  have  watched  these  little  affairs 
in  the  village,  and  almost  every  girl  has  shown  her 
heart  to  me.  Of  course,  all  young  men  carry  theirs  in 
sight.  Group  your  guests  properly,  my  dear,  and  you 
have  more  leisure  to  enjoy  yourself.  1  am  not  doing 
this  entirety  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  the  village." 

"You  are  a  strange  girl,  Helen,"  Mrs.  Coulter  re- 
marked. 


Chapter  XII 

As  if  to  verify  Mrs.  Coulter's  opinion  of  her,  Helen 
revealed  yet  another  aspect  of  her  many-sided  nature 
on  the  night  of  the  party.  The  young  people,  to  their 
surprise,  found  her  to  be  something  more  than  a  gracious 
hostess ;  she  was  a  Lady  Bountiful  of  the  heart,  whose 
one  aim  in  life  appeared  to  be  an  affectionate  considera- 
tion for  their  enjoyment.  And  within  the  atmosphere 
of  this  solicitude,  the  two  men  who  held  her  most  closely 
in  mind  became  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  time  had 
come  when  they  must  determine  her  regard  for  them 
individually. 

There  had  been  no  interchange  of  confidences  between 
Helen  and  Mary  on  the  subject  of  Martin's  attentions. 
On  the  contrary,  Helen  repelled  her,  and  to-night  Mary 
came  to  the  rectory  in  a  state  of  unusual  depression. 
She  knew  by  her  own  observation  how  troubled  Martin 
was  at  Helen's  evident  preference  for  Sidney  Graham, 
although  he  had  not  spoken  to  her  of  either  Helen  or 
Graham,  nor  had  he  shown  signs  of  petty  jealousy; 
yet,  with  a  woman's  instinct,  Mary  doubted  Helen's 
sincerity. 

On  the  night  of  the  party,  after  the  arrival  of  the 
company,  and  the  first  hour  of  formal  meeting,  Mary 
quietly  slipped  away  from  the  people  in  the  house  to  a 
seat  in  a  corner  of  the  lawn.  There  she  sat  for  some  time 
alone,  recalling  Helen's  manner  when  greeting  Martin 
and  Sidney.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  men  had  been 
intentionally  brought  side  by  side,  as  if  to  estimate 

133 


Martin    Brook 

their  qualities.  She  had  noticed,  too,  the  insistency 
of  Graham  and  the  reserve  of  Martin ;  and  she  was  still 
mentally  debating  the  meaning  of  all  this  when  Martin 
came  over  the  lawn  to  her. 

"Why,  Mary/'  he  said,  "what  are  you  doing  off 
here  by  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  —  just  thinking.  Don't  mind  me, 
Martin/'  she  said.  "I  am  not  quite  myself  to-night; 
but  please  don't  let  that  interfere  with  your  pleasure." 

"Interfere  with  my  pleasure?"  he  repeated,  in  a  tone 
of  mild  rebuke.  "Why,  you  know  I  can't  enjoy  any- 
thing when  I  see  you  looking  so  tired — or  down-spirited. " 
Then,  with  real  anxiety:  "Ought  you  to  be  out  here? 
There  is  a  heavy  dew.     Let  me  fetch  your  shawl." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  her  gravely  questioning  way 
— without  censure — and  said,  with  a  little  laugh : 

"You  stupid  boy!  Can't  you  see  I  have  my  shawl 
about  me?" 

"Well,  anything  else,  then?"  he  urged.  "I'm  going 
to  read  you  a  lesson  on  good  cheer.  I'm  afraid  you 
are  not  well.  You  looked  pale  and  worried  in  the 
house." 

"Did  I?  The  room  was  warm,  but  it  is  delightful 
out  here." 

"You  are  always  cheering  me  up  when  I  get  the  blues," 
he  protested,  "  and  now  you  snuff  me  out  when  I  try  to 
cheer  you.  Tell  me  what's  worrying  you."  He  sat 
down  beside  her  on  the  bench. 

"Please  don't  be  vexed  at  me,"  she  said.  "You 
mustn't  claim  all  the  right  to  monopolize  the  comforts 
of  being  miserable."  She  nodded  across  the  lawn. 
"See  what  a  good  time  every  one  is  having.  Miss 
Stafford  has  selected  her  company  wisely;  she  is  surely 
a  genius." 

"Yes,"  Martin  assented,  without  enthusiasm.  He 
seemed  to  have  taken  on  Mary's  depression. 

134 


Martin    Brook 

"What  a  pretty  picture  this  scene  would  make!" 
she  remarked;  but  he  remained  silent. 

The  moonlight  on  the  close-cut  grass,  the  effect  of 
dancing  figures,  as  the  soft  wind  gently  stirred  the 
leaves;  the  blackness  of  the  shadows  where  the  tall 
bushes  stood  irregularly  on  the  lawn,  and  the  denseness 
of  the  background  against  the  strong  glow  of  the  light 
on  the  trees  at  the  rear,  composed  a  study,  as  Mary 
said,  but  it  was  lost  on  Martin.  His  mind  was  filled 
with  less  objective  thoughts. 

A  fleet  of  summer  clouds  sailed  across  the  moon,  and 
made  its  light  seem  brighter  when  they  had  passed. 
Through  the  lattice  of  vines  on  the  porch,  the  yellow 
glow  of  the  candles  shed  a  soft  radiance  on  the  place. 
There  was  a  flitting  of  gay  colors  as  the  guests  moved 
in  and  out,  over  the  piazza  or  down  on  the  lawn. 
Laughter  and  merry  voices  startled  drowsy  birds  to 
twitterings  of  annoyance.  Great  blundering  beetles 
and  nocturnal  moths  fluttered  in  the  glare  and  found 
retreat  in  the  leafage.  Here  and  there  the  outlines  of 
a  filmy  gown,  half-hidden  in  the  shrubbery,  suggested 
a  tete-a-tete.  And  above  the  trees,  on  the  roof  of  the 
church,  shone  the  gilded  cross  of  St.  John  the  Evan- 
gelist. 

Martin  saw  Helen  come  out  on  the  porch,  Graham 
close  by  her  side.  She  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some- 
body as  she  came  down  and  made  a  circuit  of  the  lawn. 

Mary  watched  her  as  she  came  towards  them.  "  She 
looks  superb  in  that  gown,  doesn't  she?" 

"Miss  Stafford  appears  well  in  any  gown,"  Martin 
said.     He  rose  as  Helen  came  near. 

He  could  not  help  hearing  Graham  say:  "You 
promised  to  sing  for  me,  }Tou  know." 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  Helen  said.  "  I  have  changed 
my  mind."  She  sat  down  by  Mary,  putting  an  arm 
about  her.     "  Mr.  Brook,  I  haven't  had  an  opportunity 

135 


Martin    Brook 

to  say  how  sorrj7 1  am  that  I  was  away  when  you  called 
day  before  3^esterday." 

Graham  drew  an  angry  breath.  "Good-night/' 
he  said. 

"  Must  you  go  so  soon?"  Helen  asked,  blandly,  rising. 
"Good-night." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Graham  bowed,  without 
appearing  to  see  it,  and  walked  away. 

"Air.  Brook/'  Helen  said,  sitting  down  again  and 
taking  Mary's  impassive  hand,  "won't  3Tou  draw  that 
other  bench  nearer?  This  is  a  lovely  little  nook." 
Martin  complied  with  her  request. 

"How  cold  3^our  hands  are,  dear,"  she  said  to 
Mary! 

"It  is  nothing,"  Mary  hastened  to  say.  "Would 
you  mind  if  I  were  to  slip  away  quietly?  I'm  not  feel- 
ing quite  well.     The  night  air  seems  chill." 

"Isn't there  something  I  can  do,  dear?"  Helen  asked. 

"  No — no,  thank  you,"  Mary  replied. 

"Perhaps  you  ought  not  to  sit  here,"  Helen  said, 
kissing  her. 

Mary  got  up,  and  Martin  started  to  go  with  her. 

"Don't  come,  please,"  she  whispered,  as  she  hurried 
away  alone. 

He  stood  in  an  attitude  of  uncertainty  until  she  was 
gone,  and  turned  towards  Helen. 

"  I  am  troubled  about  Mar}7,"  he  said. 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  anxiety,  I  think,"  Helen 
replied,  with  an  unspoken  invitation  to  Martin  to  sit 
beside  her;  but  before  he  had  seated  himself,  a  servant 
came  to  her  with  a  request  from  Mrs.  Coulter.  She 
took  Martin's  arm  and  went  up  the  lawn  to  the  house, 
wondering  by  what  ordering  of  fate  her  aunt  had  sent 
for  her  just  then,  the  question  growing  in  her  mind 
when  Mrs.  Coulter  met  them  at  the  door  only  with 
some  trivial  excuse.     An  instant  later,  however,  her 

136 


Martin    Brook 

aunt  found  opportunity  to  whisper:  "Where  is  Mr. 
Graham?" 

"He  is  gone/'  Helen  said,  icily,  at  the  recollection 
of  his  conduct  just  before  she  had  intentionally  sought 
Martin  and  Mary  on  the  lawn. 

"He  appeared  to  have  been  imbibing  too  freely/' 
Mrs.  Coulter  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  There  was  com- 
ment among  the  guests.  I  was  afraid  you  might  be 
annoyed." 

"You  are  always  thoughtful/'  Helen  answered. 
Then,  smilingly,  to  Martin :  "Shall  I  sing  for  you?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  thrill. 

A  chattering  group  of  girls  came  running  up. 

"Oh,  Miss  Stafford,  please  play  something  for  us/' 
they  urged. 

Helen  turned  to  Martin.  "1  will  sing  for  you  an- 
other time,"  she  said.  He  bowed  with  a  mingled  feel- 
ing of  regret  and  annoyance,  as  the  company  followed 
Helen  into  the  parlor.  But,  by  the  glance  she  gave 
him,  he  realized  that  the  barrier  to  his  progress  no 
longer  existed. 

Still,  as  the  days  went  on,  he  did  not  declare  his  love. 
His  silence  was  inexplicable  to  her,  for  she  did  not  know 
him  well  enough  to  understand  that  the  silence  was 
a  searching  of  his  soul  to  determine  that  his  emotion 
was  truly  the  love  he  should  feel  for  the  woman  he 
would  marry. 

Love  had  become  as  sacred  a  passion  to  him  as  the 
hope  of  salvation,  and  Helen  was  the  object  of  his  adora- 
tion; but  he  doubted  the  promptings  of  his  heart,  and 
struggled  with  those  doubts  as  he  had  once  wrestled 
with  the  problems  of  his  religious  awakening. 

Now,  as  then,  he  desired  a  woman's  estimate  of  the 
quality  of  his  feelings ;  and  once  more  he  found  that 
his  attempts  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Wright  of  his  emotional 
affairs  were  never  satisfactory.     Besides,  there  seemed 

137 


Martin    Brook 

to  be  in  this  instance  a  peculiar  reticence  on  her  part 
which  he  could  not  understand.  Whenever  he  tried 
to  introduce  the  subject  of  his  interest  in  Helen,  Airs. 
Wright  evaded  the  subject,  and  ended  by  some  irrele- 
vant allusion  to  Mary. 

The  judge,  however,  appeared  to  desire  his  settle- 
ment in  life,  and  had  shown  a  very  decided  approval 
of  Helen.  She  had  won  him  through  her  professed 
sympathy  with  his  studies.  As  a  linguist,  and  es- 
pecially because  of  the  daring  of  her  thought  and  her 
familiarity  with  the  French  and  German  literature 
of  modern  philosoplw,  she  was  ideally  attractive  to 
him.  But  she  soon  learned  that  Judge  Northcote  was 
impregnable  to  any  feminine  art  that  did  not  deal  with 
some  impersonal  theme,  and,  with  her  adroit  facility 
of  mind,  she  had  adapted  herself  to  inevitable  con- 
ditions. 

But  even  the  judge's  open  sanction  of  her  did  not 
convince  Martin  of  the  truth  of  his  own  feelings.  He 
was  compelled  to  speak  to  some  one — to  put  his  ar- 
gument into  words.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  the  conflict 
of  impulsive  emotion  and  intellectual  analysis,  that  it 
was  a  case  for  debate,  and  yet  it  was  one  to  which  no 
man  —  not  even  the  judge  —  could  be  a  party.  Still, 
there  was  the  warring  of  his  own  nature  with  the  ac- 
quired habit  of  leaning  on  Judge  Northcote 's  opinions. 

And  again,  as  in  his  religious  struggle,  he  turned 
to  Mary  for  advice. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  as  they  were  walking  down  from 
Elmhurst  one  evening,  she  on  her  way  home  and  he  ac- 
companying her,  but  with  a  call  at  the  rectory  in  his 
mind,  "what  do  you  think  of  Miss  Stafford  now?" 

"  I  think  her  a  very  attractive  woman." 

"Attractive?  Isn't  there  a  more  cordial  word  than 
that?" 

"You  know  that  I  have  met  her  but  a  few  times," 

138 


Martin    Brook 

she  said,  gently.  "Her  life  abroad  appears  to  have 
changed  her  greatly.  It  is  surely  complimentary  to 
say  she  is  attractive." 

"I  don't  want  compliments/'  he  replied,  "but  your 
sincere  opinion." 

"  Why,  I  am  sincere." 

"  Women  are  always  so  critical  of  other  women," 
he  said.     "  Why  don't  you  like  her?" 

"  But  I  do  like  her,  Martin.  At  least,  I  do  not  dis- 
like her.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

h  Because  I  think  her  the  most  charming,  the  most 
fascinating  woman  1  have  ever  met,"  he  declared. 

"Neither  of  us  has  known  very  many  charming 
women,"  Mary  said. 

Martin  looked  at  her  with  an  indignant  frown. 

"If  you  knew  Miss  Stafford  better,  perhaps  you 
would  have  a  higher  opinion  of  my  estimate." 

"Do  you  like  her  so  well,  Martin?" 

"1  love  her,  Mary,"  he  said,  impulsively.  "And 
I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  wish  me  success  in 
winning  her." 

She  made  no  reply  until  they  had  reached  her  home 
and  Martin  was  turning  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the  rec- 
tory. Then  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  restraining 
him  a  moment.  "  1  do  wish  you  success  in  all  things, 
Martin,"  she  said,  calmly. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in 
his.  "With  your  good  wishes,  and  little  mother's,  I 
feel  confident.  Good -night."  He  walked  away  with 
firm,  proud  steps. 

"Good -night,"  she  whispered,  and  went  slowly  up 
the  path,  with  its  shadowy  border  of  shrubs. 

Alone  in  her  room,  Mary  locked  the  door,  and  drop- 
ped on  her  knees  by  her  bed,  sobbing  in  agony.  She 
poured  out  the  secret  of  her  heart  to  the  invisible  mother, 
whose  presence  seemed  to  hold  her  in  a  pitying  era- 

139 


Martin    Brook 

brace.  And  yet,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with  those 
who  call  upon  the  dead  for  consolation,  she  felt  that 
sense  of  immeasurable  distance  between  them;  the 
vastness  of  the  silence;  the  suggestion  of  a  terrifying 
complacency  in  superior  wisdom  gained  on  the  wider 
plane  of  vision,  and  which  appeared  to  her  to  mean  a 
diminishing  of  the  one-time  human  sympathy. 

"Oh,  dear  mother,"  she  moaned,  "is  it  possible  that 
you  have  outgrown  your  love  for  me?  Does  death 
mean  an  indifference  to  the  suffering  of  your  child? 
Can't  you  come  to  me  as  you  were,  and  give  me  strength 
in  sympathy  ?  I  love  him  so — must  I  give  him  up  to 
her — to  a  cold,  heartless  woman,  who  does  not  love  him 
for  himself?  You  do  not  answer,  and  yet  you  see  me, 
in  my  helplessness." 

She  lay  exhausted,  in  dumb  misery,  for  a  time; 
when  suddenly  there  came  to  her  inner  sense  the  words 
she  had  once  tried  to  encourage  Martin  with :  "God  is 
love!"  A  spiritual  calm  drifted  down  upon  her — the 
calm  of  unselfishness  soothed  her  tired  heart.  She 
raised  her  head,  as  if  with  the  passing  of  the  burden 
and  weight  of  grief. 

"Am  I  just  to  her?"  she  asked.  "She  cannot  be 
unworthy  if  he  loves  her — and  if  he  loves  her,  I  must 
give  him  up.     God  help  me  to  forget ! " 

The  time  came  at  last  when  Martin  was  convinced 
of  his  love  for  Helen.  He  went  first  to  the  judge, 
in  the  library,  and  told  him  of  the  new  interest  in 
life. 

"My  dear  boy,"  Mr.  Northcote  replied,  "this  is  only 
the  natural  course  of  events.  Love  is  a  law,  but  let 
us  be  sure  that  we  are  obeying  the  law  aright."  He 
was  silent  a  moment.  "Yes,"  he  declared  oracularly, 
"  you  must  win  your  spurs  if  you  are  to  wear  the  guer- 
don.    Begin  with  a  woman's  love.     Be  known  as  her 

140 


Martin    Brook 

champion.  The  assurance  of  a  worthy  woman's  love 
is  a  safeguard  and  an  inspiration." 

"You  are  right,"  Martin  said.  "Helen  will  be  an 
incentive,  sir,  even  if  you  do  draw  so  high  a  simile. 
You  have  given  me  a  social  rank,  and  although  I 
may  never  become  a  great  knight,  still — " 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  must  become,  a  knight  of 
the  Established  —  the  Conservative  and  Preservative. 
That  work  is  before  you,  or  1  misread  the  signs  of  the 
times." 

"Knights  of  the  Established  became  Crusaders 
and—" 

"No!"  cried  the  judge.  "That  is  absurd.  Leave 
crusading  to  the  unbalanced  and  fanatical.  Be  a  man 
among  the  dignified  rulers.  There  are  great  possibil- 
ities for  you.  Begin  right  and  live  right.  It  is  the 
law  of  God  and  nature  that  we  should  not  live  alone. 
For  myself — "  He  stopped  and  looked  away,  a  light 
in  his  eyes  Martin  had  never  seen  before.  Turning 
once  more  and  looking  straight  into  Martin's  face,  he 
asked :  "Are  you  sure  she  loves  you?" 

"1  think  so,"  Martin  said. 

"  Is  that  all  that  you  can  say  V  the  judge  questioned, 
earnestly.  Then  with  deep  feeling :  "  Be  sure,  my  boy ; 
be  sure  of  it!" 

The  judge  walked  to  his  chair  and  sat  down,  his 
head  drooped  forward  on  his  chest. 

Martin  waited.     The  judge  remained  lost  in  thought. 

"I  have  your  permission  to  ask  Helen  Stafford  to 
be  my  wife,  father  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  summer  sped  rapidly.  Helen's  visit  was  pro- 
tracted beyond  the  limits  of  her  father's  patience,  and 
she  announced  the  date  of  her  home-going.  There 
was  now  no  more  of  the  early  coquetry — no  more  of 

141 


Martin    Brook 

Graham — no  more  of  the  vacillating  between  the  thought 
of  winning  the  judge  or  winning  the  prospective  heir. 
Her  mind  seemed  to  be  centred  on  Martin,  as  his  was 
fixed  on  her. 

The  evening  before  the  day  of  her  departure  was 
passed  at  Elmhurst.  Helen  was  convinced  that  she 
had  won  the  judge  to  a  full  acceptance  of  her  in  his 
aspirations  for  Martin.  Because  of  this,  she  had  said 
good-bj^e  to  the  judge  with  tender  solicitude,  and  had 
kissed  Mrs.  Wright  at  parting.  And  yet,  she  had 
failed  to  assure  herself  that  Martin  was  indeed  the  heir 
to  Elmhurst.  Her  delicate  inquiries,  her  naive  sugges- 
tions, had  fallen  on  deaf  ears,  and  there  were  moments 
when,  in  the  uncertainty  of  her  own  purpose,  she  half 
questioned  Martin's  sincerity  in  his  profession  of  a 
disinterested  love.  It  was  the  name  and  social  sta- 
tus of  the  Northcotes,  rather  than  the  fortune,  which 
attracted  her;  and  Martin  was  not  a  Northcote  in 
fact. 

But  now  she  knew  that  the  time  had  come  when  he 
would  speak,  and  she  shrank  from  the  avowal  of  her 
intention ;  for  he  might,  after  all,  become  a  Northcote. 
So,  on  their  way  from  Elmhurst,  that  final  night  of 
her  stay  in  Sandy  Hill,  she  was  halting  between  two 
opinions. 

They  approached  the  little  rectory.  They  reached 
the  gate.  Martin  laid  his  hand  on  the  latch  and  held 
it  firm.  He  barred  her  way.  The  words  that  came 
to  his  lips  were  not  the  ones  he  had  planned  to  speak, 
but  such  as  could  come  only  from  a  man  who  is  stirred 
by  a  passionate  conviction. 

" Helen/'  he  said,  "do  you  remember  that  first  even- 
ing at  the  party,  years  ago,  when  you  sang  for  Mr. 
Graham  and  turned  away  from  me  ?" 

Her  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap.  She  flashed  a  look 
into  his  face.     Was   this,  then,  simply  a  trick?     Had 

142 


Martin    Brook 

he  been  playing  for  petty   revenge  all  these  weeks? 
He — a  nobody — a  waif! 

She  made  no  reply,  and  he  went  on:  "You  thought 
me  ignorant  and  awkward/' 

"You  have  enjoyed  a  long  season  of  revenge/'  she 
interrupted,  haughtily. 

"1  have  enjoyed  too  brief  a  summer/' 

"Allow  me  to  pass/'  she  commanded. 

"No,  not  until  you  have  heard  all  1  wish  to  say- 
all  I  must  say/' 

She  started  a  step  forward,  and  tried  to  wrench  his 
hand  from  the  gate,  but  he  held  her  away. 

"You  shall  not  enter  this  place  until  you  have  said 
the  word  that  decides  my  fate.  I  am  a  tyrant  for 
once/' 

Still  she  did  not  grasp  his  meaning. 

"Helen,"  he  whispered,  "don't  you  understand 
me  ?  I  love  you  !  I  have  loved  you  from  the 
first!" 

"You  love  me?"  she  said,  drawing  a  quick  breath. 
She  realized  his  meaning  in  alluding  to  the  past,  but 
the  first  thrill  of  anger — of  mortification — the  hurt  to 
her  pride — still  lingered.  The  transition  in  her  intense 
emotion,  from  defence  of  self  to  selfish  conquest,  was 
too  quick  for  even  her  facile  mind.  She  turned  her 
face  from  him.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  with  re- 
straining force. 

His  positive  touch  offended  her;  but  the  assurance 
of  success  revived  the  instinct  of  coquetry  in  her.  She 
had  triumphed,  and  yet  the  dominant  habit  of  her  nat- 
ure asserted  itself.  She  had  won  him  by  deliberation, 
and  now  she  hesitated,  alarmed  at  the  revelation  of  a 
love  that  was  beyond  her  comprehension. 

She  reached  out  to  open  the  gate.  He  caught  her 
hand  in  his,  with  an  arm  still  about  her,  and  pressed 
her  closer  to  him. 

143 


Martin    Brook 

"Answer  me!"  he  insisted.  "Tell  me  you  love  me, 
darling !     Tell  me !     Do  you  V* 

"I  think  so/'  she  said,  half  yielding,  repeating,  un- 
consciously, his  own  words  to  the  judge. 

"  Tell  me !     Tell  me  now  ! ' ' 

"I  cannot  think  now.     You  hurt  me.     Let  me  go!" 


Chapter  XIII 

MARTIN  lay  awake  that  night,  after  his  declaration  of 
love  to  Helen,  blaming  himself  for  his  crude  love-making, 
for  his  delay  in  speaking  and  his  final  peremptory 
demand — indeed,  for  a  hundred  unpardonable  blunders 
he  could  now  recall.  He  justified  her  in  refusing  to  be 
coerced  into  reply — in  refusing  to  listen  to  a  command. 
He  argued,  however,  in  self-defence,  that  he  had  not 
meant  to  speak  in  such  a  tone ;  but  he  confessed  judg- 
ment on  his  stupidity.  It  appeared  to  him  to  be  a  greater 
stupidity  than  he  had  shown  years  ago.  And  yet,  he 
pleaded  with  tormenting  memory  that  he  had  spoken 
in  love.  Yes,  now  that  he  had  jeopardized  his  cause 
by  an  uncouthness  of  manner,  he  was  confident  that 
he  loved  her,  and  that  he  must  remove  the  wrong  im- 
pression he  had  created  regarding  both  motive  and 
manners. 

He  could  think  of  only  one  way  to  do  this :  he  would 
call  at  the  rectory  in  the  morning  and  have  a  minute's 
talk  with  her  before  she  left  Sandy  Hill. 

Filled  with  this  idea,  he  got  up  at  the  first  streak 
of  dawn,  that  he  might  not  miss  the  opportunity ;  but  it 
was  hours  to  stage -time.  He  must  wait  until  then. 
In  his  embarrassment  he  was  afraid  he  might  add  to 
his  mortification  by  appearing  out  of  season  at  the 
rectory,  even  though  he  had  so  valid  an  excuse  as 
Helen's  early  departure.  The  old-time  feeling  of  sen- 
sitiveness came  back  to  him.  He  reasoned  that  he 
could  avert  the  hazard  of  a  refusal  to  see  him  by  getting 
K  145 


Martin    Brook 

to  the  rector}^  as  if  by  accident,  just  as  the  stage  came 
in  from  the  north;  and  by  doing  this  he  could  walk 
with  her  to  the  inn  without  attracting  special  notice. 

He  rehearsed  his  coming  scene  a  hundred  times  in 
thought;  but  there  remained  the  dragging  minutes 
until  the  stage  should  come.  He  paced  the  grounds 
and  wandered  into  the  fields,  only  to  be  seized  with  a 
sudden  fear  that  the  stage  might  arrive  before  the  cus- 
tomary hour  and  carry  her  away  before  he  could  reach 
her  side. 

He  walked  hastily  back  to  the  house.  Eph  met  him 
near  the  gate. 

"Well,  I  swan!"  Eph  said,  handing  him  a  letter. 
"Didn't  s'pose  you  was  out  o'  bed  yit.  Here's  some- 
thin'  the  dominie's  man  fetched  over  just  now.  I  was 
waitin'  for  ye  to  git  up.     Smells  just  like  roses. " 

Martin's  hand  trembled  as  he  took  the  letter.  He 
recognized  Helen's  writing;  but,  more  plainly  still, 
the  faint  odor  of  roses  that  pervaded  her  belongings— 
the  subtle  fragrance  of  her  presence,  that  was  a  part  of 
her  very  self. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  this  to  me  at  once?"  Martin 
demanded. 

He  went  rapidly  to  his  room,  his  heart  beating  fierce- 
ly with  apprehension.  He  broke  the  dainty  wafer  with 
the  utmost  care,  and  held  the  missive,  with  averted  eyes, 
a  moment  before  he  could  summon  courage  to  read  it. 

"MY  DEAR  Mr.  BROOK,"  [the  message  ran]— "lam  so  sorry 
not  to  see  you  once  more  before  leaving,  but  I  cannot  expect  you 
to  give  up  the  luxury  of  a  morning  nap  just  because  the  stage 
persists  in  keeping  abominably  early  hours. 

"You  went  away  so  quickly  to-night  (for  I  am  writing  this 
before  I  sleep)  that  I  did  not,  in  my  carelessness,  inquire  con- 
cerning a  possible  call  from  you  at  our  home.  Cannot  we  hope 
for  such  a  pleasure  ?  I  am  sure  my  mother  will  be  glad  to  know 
you ;  and  I  have  already  told  you  that  my  father  has  expressed 
a  desire  to  hear  more  directly  from  Judge  Northcote.     I  shall  live 

I46 


Martin    Brook 

in  the  pleasant  anticipation  of  hearing   that  your  professional 
duties  require  your  presence  in  Albany  very  soon. 

"  Very  sincerely  your  friend, 

"Helen  Stafford." 

Martin  read  the  lines  over  and  over.  To  his  sen- 
sitive mind,  she  seemed  plainly  to  prohibit  a  call  this 
morning  before  she  left  Sandy  Hill;  but,  beyond  all 
question,  she  had  forgiven  his  rudeness.  And,  in 
obedience  to  his  interpretation  of  her  meaning,  with 
the  precious  letter  still  in  his  hand,  he  put  temptation 
out  of  the  way  by  going  into  the  depths  of  the  woods, 
off  from  the  highway,  where  he  could  not  hear  the  coach 
as  it  rattled  by,  lest  it  should  drag  him,  against  her 
will,  to  the  rectory  gate.  Here,  in  the  solitude,  he 
studied  every  word,  and  read  into  the  delicate  prohibi- 
tion of  a  present  meeting  the  most  encouraging  ex- 
pression of  a  hope — a  hope  that  they  would  meet  again — 
an  invitation  so  direct  that  it  left  no  chance  for  a  doubt. 

There  was  a  sense  of  something  lacking — a  vacancy 
in  life — when  he  returned  home  and  took  up  the  day's 
dull  routine.  Judge  Northcote  perceived  this  look  in 
his  face,  and  smiled. 

"You  will  find  it  rather  lonely  now,  I  presume/' 
he  said. 

"Yes,"  Martin  admitted,  frankly.  "I  was  thinking 
that  possibly  there  might  be  some  business — some  pro- 
fessional errand — you  would  like  to  have  me  do  for 
you  in  Albany." 

"No,"  the  judge  said,  slowly,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eyes.  "I  do  not  know  of  anything  that  claims  my 
personal  attention;  but  I  should  like  to  send  a  private 
letter  to  Colonel  Stafford.  Would  you  object  to  acting 
as  my  messenger?"  The  judge's  white  silk  handker- 
chief fluttered  for  a  moment  in  his  fingers. 

"If  you  wish  it,  sir,"  Martin  said,  smiling.  "I  am 
ready  to  go  at  an}T  time. " 

147 


Martin    Brook 

That  morning  the  judge  wrote  two  letters  —  one, 
unsealed,  introducing  Martin  Brook  and  commending 
him  to  the  confidence  of  Colonel  Stafford;  and  one, 
considerably  longer,  which  he  sealed  before  enfolding 
it  in  the  open  letter,  which  was  held  in  form  by  a  bit  of 
thread. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  the  judge  remarked,  "for 
making  this  inner  message  a  sealed  communication  ?" 
He  permitted  himself  the  luxury  of  a  smile.  "The 
colonel  may  choose  to  make  a  verbal  reply,  but  we  must 
regard  his  feelings  as  a  man  accustomed  to  the  secret 
methods  of  diplomatic  correspondence." 

And  now,  after  a  week  of  careful  preparation,  Mar- 
tin is  pacing  the  inn  porch,  impatientl}7  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  coach.  Enoch  stands  guard  over  the 
long  carpet-bag  with  its  leather-covered  iron  jaws  and 
interlacing  strap  that  clutches  the  final  staple  in  its 
padlocked  embrace. 

"You  are  sure  that  everything  is  right,  Enoch? 
Did  yon  put  in  that  last  lot  of  scarfs?" 

"Why,  Marse  Martin,"  Enoch  said,  reproachfully, 
"you  think  I  let  you  go  if  'twa'n't  in  hyar?" 

"No — certainly  not — certainty  not."  Martin  drew 
his  silver  watch  from  the  fob-pocket  of  his  trousers  and 
looked  at  the  time  of  day.  "  The  stage  must  have  met 
with  an  accident — it's  behind  time." 

"Yes,  sah,  I  reckon  it  is  mos'  pow'ful  slow,"  Enoch 
assented,  as  he  turned  his  back  on  Martin  and  bent 
over  the  bag,  rolling  his  eyes  in  silent  laughter. 

But  here,  on  the  ven7  minute,  came  the  coach,  with 
Big  Bill  on  the  box — Big  Bill,  who  in  years  gone  by 
may  have  been  burdened  with  another  name,  but  now, 
just  Big  Bill,  master-craftsman  of  the  reins  and  whip; 
known  to  eve^  urchin  from  Glens  Falls  to  Troy  as  the 
model  by  which  to  shape  the  greatest  of  all  earthty 

148 


Martin    Brook 

ambitions.  To  be  as  big  as  Bill— to  handle  the  leathern 
lines  like  Bill— to  own  a  yellow  chest  like  Bill's,  that 
always  lay  there  on  the  floor  of  the  driver's  perch,  with 
its  mysterious  contents,  its  bits  of  straps,  its  buckles, 
its  lashes,  its  emergency  kit  of  tools,  not  to  speak  of 
the  rare  artistic  painting  of  an  etherealized  whip  with  a 
winding  lash  and  a  dream  of  a  snapper  that  adorned 
the  padlocked  lid— in  fact,  to  have  the  things  that  Bill 
was  known  to  have,  to  see  the  places  that  Bill  had  seen, 
to  listen  to  the  deep,  gruff  voice  of  Bill,  and  hear  him 
roar  at  the  stable-boys,  or  tone  his  dust- worn  throat  in 
fit  reply  to  a  lady's  word  of  salutation — all  these,  and 
infinitely  more  things  that  might  be  said  of  Bill,  made 
him  the  envied  hero  of  the  road.  It  was  high  treason 
to  assert  that  any  other  man  could  wheel  a  coach  up 
to  an  inn  porch  or  fling  a  mail-pouch  down  in  better 
form  than  he. 

Late?  Never!  Martin's  watch  may  have  been  out 
of  time,  or  Martin's  eager  nerves  may  have  been  playing 
false,  but  Bill  was  always  right. 

And  Martin  knew  it  as  well  as  any  one,  when  he 
caught  the  hand-rail  of  the  coach  and  pulled  himself 
up  over  the  forward  wheel  to  the  seat  beside  the  mighty 
Bill,  and  nodded  with  insuppressible  pride  to  the  little 
crowd  about  him — Martin,  in  his  blue  broadcloth  coat 
with  brass  buttons  and  swelling  skirt,  his  light,  full 
trousers,  his  bell -crown  beaver  and  his  low  shoes, 
his  fob  and  watch  — the  watch  whose  workings  we 
have  dared  to  question. 

Judge  Northcote  himself  had  honored  the  occasion 
by  coming  down  and  reaching  the  inn  at  the  moment 
of  the  arrival  of  the  coach — not  an  instant  sooner — 
as  Bill's  fat  forefinger  described  a  graceful  circle  and 
reached  his  hat-brim  in  recognition  of  the  judge's  sal- 
utation. 

But  the  stop  was  only  for  a  moment — Sandy  Hill 

149 


Martin    Brook 

was  not  a  changing  station.  The  horses,  restless 
to  be  off,  shook  their  heads  impatiently.  Bill  drew  the 
lines  between  his  fingers,  Martin  lifted  his  hat  to  the 
judge,  and  the  stage  was  off  once  more,  while  Enoch 
shouted:  "Good  luck,  Marse  Martin!" 

The  swaying  coach,  on  its  triple  leather  straps  that 
served  in  lieu  of  springs,  went  dashing  down  the  street ; 
and  yet  it  seemed  to  Martin  that  it  was  drawn  by  snails, 
so  fast  his  heart  outran  the  horses.  Yet  time  will  pass, 
even  though  an  eager  lover  counts  the  minutes.  And, 
once  in  Albany,  after  a  night  of  disturbed  rest,  in  the 
unwonted  seclusion  of  his  hotel,  Martin's  anxiety  was 
not  concerning  time,  but  because  of  the  momentous 
responsibility  that  was  thrust  upon  him  in  the  selection 
of  his  scarf.  He  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  having 
Enoch  decide  these  important  matters  for  him,  that  now, 
at  the  critical  moment,  he  regretted  that  he  had  not 
brought  Enoch  with  him,  as  he  sighed  in  despair  and 
spread  the  contents  of  his  long  carpet-sack  on  the  bed. 

So,  at  last,  after  many  testings,  when  he  had  decided 
on  the  broadcloth  coat,  with  trousers  to  match,  and  the 
rich  black  silk  neckerchief,  that  puffed  in  front  and  was 
held  in  place  by  a  long  gold-head  pin,  low  shoes  and 
silk  stockings  of  the  finest  quality,  he  was  pleased 
to  see  that  his  tall  hat  increased  the  effect  of  his  height. 
Helen  had  once  said  that  she  admired  tall  men.  But 
the  attention  he  gave  to  his  appearance  was  not  from 
vanity ;  it  was  done  in  a  spirit  of  regard  for  his  distin- 
guished host.  He  assured  himself  of  this  a  score  of 
times,  as  he  turned  before  the  mirror.  He  was  the 
bearer  of  important  "  sealed  instructions,"  from  a  gentle- 
man to  an  eminent  diplomat ;  and  his  office  of  confidence 
demanded  the  observance  of  even7  shade  of  decorum. 

Thus,  conscious  of  having  fulfilled  his  external 
duties,  he  tried  to  quiet  the  beating  of  his  heart,  when, 
in  the  presence  of  Colonel  Stafford,  in  the  beautiful 

150 


Martin    Brook 

mansion  near  the  Capitol,  he  handed  out  those  letters 
of  introduction,  and  saw  them  taken  with  all  the  dignity 
befitting  the  occasion. 

That  sealed  message,  whatever  its  purport  really  was, 
could  not  have  been  more  efficacious  in  securing  favor 
if  it  had  been  a  literal  evidence  of  Martin's  succession 
to  the  estate  of  Elmhurst.  At  all  events,  it  proved  to  be 
an  open  sesame  to  the  colonel;s  heart  and  home. 

"My  dear  sir,"  the  colonel  said,  "there  is  only  one 
regret  to  be  expressed — the  unfortunate  illness  of  Mrs. 
Stafford  deprives  her  of  the  pleasure  of  performing  the 
duties  of  hostess.  But  I  am  happy  to  say  that  my 
daughter  is  at  home/' 

"Miss  Stafford  is— is  well,  I  trust,"  Martin  said. 

"  Yes,  and  she  will  be  delighted  to  see  some  one  from 
Sandy  Hill."  The  colonel  rang.  "And  the  dear 
judge?    How  is  my  old  friend?" 

"  The  judge  is  enjoying  his  usual  good  health,  I  am 
glad  to  say."- 

A  servant  entered.  Colonel  Stafford  requested  the 
presence  of  Miss  Stafford.  Martin  listened  to  the 
words,  in  a  state  of  nervous  unreality.  He  counted 
his  heart -beats,  until  that  moment  when,  more  be- 
wilderingly  charming,  more  lovable  than  ever  before, 
he  saw  her  standing  there  in  the  room,  and  heard  her 
voice  uttering  words  of  welcome,  approving  of  the 
colonel's  cordial  assurance  that  he  must  be  their  guest 
while  he  remained  in  town. 

The  hours  no  longer  dragged.  And  yet,  as  the  days 
went  on — for  the  colonel  insisted  on  his  remaining 
long  enough  to  meet  the  Governor  and  other  notable 
men — Martin  became  conscious  of  an  atmosphere  of 
reserve  in  Helen  which  was  puzzling  and  indefinable. 
An  intangible  barrier  seemed  to  be  shaping  itself  be- 
tween them.  Because  of  this  vague  dread,  it  was  not 
until  the  third  evening  of  his  stay  that  he  found  the 

151 


Martin    Brook 

courage  to  reavow  his  love.  Then,  sustained  by  a 
consciousness  of  Colonel  Stafford's  approval  of  him, 
he  spoke  to  her. 

"Helen/'  he  said,  "you  know  why  I  am  here.  1 
love  you,  and  I  ask  you  to  become  my  wife." 

He  was  amazed  at  his  own  calmness  and  her  placidity. 

In  the  dimly  lighted  parlor  of  this  fine  home  his 
words  sounded  cold,  conventional,  formal.  He  seemed 
to  be  arguing  a  case  that,  while  justified  by  reason, 
needed  argument,  and  she  answered  him  with  equal 
coolness;  but,  as  he  desired  she  should,  she  promised 
to  become  his  wife. 

In  spite  of  his  success,  he  kept  on  questioning  the 
reality  of  it  all.  Where  were  his  passion  and  his 
agoiry  of  fear?  Why  had  the  accomplished  fact  of 
his  acceptance  by  the  woman  he  loved  assumed  this 
aspect  of  the  commonplace  ? 

He  shook  himself  free  from  the  chilling  thought, 
and  stood  before  her,  as  she  sat  in  unemotional  quiet. 

"Helen,  do  you  love  me?" 

"Love  you,  Martin?"  she  answered,  opening  and 
closing  the  ivory  leaves  of  her  fan.  "Certainly  I  do. 
Haven't  I  told  you  so?" 

He  grew  impulsive.  "  Tell  me  once  more.  It  seems 
so  unreal — so  incredible.  Yes,  you  have  promised  to 
be  my  wife;  but  when?  When  will  you  marry  me?" 
He  held  his  arms  towards  her.     "Tell  me,  darling!" 

"Some  day,  Martin,"  she  said,  ignoring  his  gesture. 

"Some  day?"  he  cried,  passionately.  "You  gave 
me  hope — why  need  we  defer  that  hope  ?  Let  me  carry 
back  an  assurance  of  the  time — a  definite  hope!" 

"There  are  so  many  things  to  be  considered,"  she 
replied.  "You  should  be  content  with  the  promise." 
She  smiled.     He  came  closer  to  her. 

"Oh,  Helen— darling!"  he  said,  taking  both  her 
hands.     "  I  am  willing  to  wait ;  but  there  is  no  need  of 

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Martin    Brook 

this  delay."  He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  but  she  re- 
mained impassive. 

"You  forget  my  mother's  illness/'  she  said.  "Let 
us  offer  that  as  excuse." 

"Excuse?"  he  questioned,  dropping  her  hands. 
"  What  do  you  mean?" 

"No,  not  excuse,"  she  said,  rising,  with  a  smile  that 
brought  him  to  her  again.     "  Call  it  our  reason." 

"I  will  call  nothing  in  reason  but  the  fulfilment  of 
37our  promise." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  but  she  made 
no  response. 

The  memory  of  that  kiss  bore  him  along  through 
the  days  that  followed  his  return  home,  placid  days, 
filled  with  a  sense  of  gratitude  to  God  and  all  his  earthly 
friends  for  the  blessings  that  were  being  showered  upon 
him.  Letters  from  Helen,  and  his  daily  record  of  his 
love  for  her,  sustained  him;  but  to  every  urging  he 
could  devise  there  came  some  plausible  argument  for 
delay. 

The  establishment  of  his  heirship,  which  was  pro- 
longed by  Judge  Northcote's  habit  of  deliberation  in 
business  affairs,  and  because  he  wished  to  make  an 
actual  transfer  of  a  portion  of  the  estate  to  insure  Mar- 
tin's independence,  remained  in  abeyance.  Conscious 
of  the  pleasure  the  judge  and  Mrs.  Wright  took  in 
their  labor  of  love,  in  confirming  his  relation  to  them, 
and  ruled  by  his  innate  delicacy  towards  his  patron, 
Martin  made  no  allusion  to  the  subject.  In  the  con- 
fidence of  his  love  for  Helen,  he  did  not  associate  the 
fact  of  her  reserve  with  this  conservative  action  by  the 
judge.  But  in  spite  of  this  impatience  on  Martin's 
part  for  a  decisive  word  from  Helen,  there  was  a  happy 
group  at  Elmhurst;  and  the  happiest  heart  in  all  the 
place  beat  under  the  black  skin  of  old  Enoch. 

153 


Martin    Brook 

The  matter-of-fact  Eph  contemplated  the  change  in 
Martin's  social  prospects  with  deep  interest,  but  with 
none  of  the  enthusiasm  shown  bjT  Enoch. 

"It's  jest  's  1  sed  it'd  be/'  Eph  remarked.  "I  see 
how  things  was  comin'  out  first  time  I  see  the  little 
chap  layin'  out  there  in  the  barn.  All  he  needed  then 
was  age,  an'  that  comes  natchul  to  him.  I'll  have  to 
practise  callin'  him  Mister,  I  'spose." 

"Marse  Martin  is  gettin'  whar  he  belongs,"  Enoch 
affirmed,  wisety.  "  De  head  ob  dis  yeah  great  house 
gotter  hab  brains,  an'  dat's  what  Marse  Martin's  got. 
Brains  an'  heart — dat's  what  Marse  Martin's  got.  He 
knows  de  taste  ob  de  bestest  wines,  an'  he  got  de  real 
qual'ty  ways  wid  his  garments.  Yis,  sah,  dat's  what 
he  is — jes'  lak  de  ole  Virginia  gem'men,  sah." 

Enoch  knew.  He  was  monarch  of  the  realm  above 
stairs,  ruling  the  wardrobes,  and  in  the  wine-cellar 
he  was  supreme.  It  was  always  this  coat  and  that 
bottle,  when  Enoch  passed  the  word.  In  the  village, 
too,  he  was  known  as  well  as  any  member  of  the  house- 
hold. There  was  only  one  man  in  Sandy  Hill  who  dis- 
liked Enoch,  and  that  was  Sidney  Graham,  who  had 
for  years  entertained  a  bitter  feeling  of  enmity  for  both 
the  young  master  and  the  man ;  a  feeling  that  had  in- 
creased when  Martin  revealed  the  authorship  of  the 
articles  in  the  Sentinel  to  Graham's  undoing,  and  was 
now  developed  into  positive  animosity  at  the  rumor  of 
Martin's  social  preferment.  Graham's  attitude  towards 
the  negro  was  that  of  reflected  animosity  because  of 
Martin's  open  friendship  for  Enoch. 

Graham's  expulsion  from  the  office  by  the  judge 
added  still  another  to  the  list  of  those  he  alread}7  hated. 
He  secretly  hoped  the  time  would  come  when  he  could 
take  revenge  on  Northcote  as  well  as  on  Martin.  He 
knew  that  Martin,  despite  the  cultivated  habit  of  re- 
pression, was,  at  heart,  impulsive  and  emotional.       He 

154 


Martin    Brook 
« 
had    never    forgotten    nor    forgiven    that    involuntary 
bath  in  the  Hudson,  and  had  brooded  over  the  humil- 
iation of  Helen  Stafford's  dismissal  of  him  and  the 
rumor  that  his  rival  was  the  accepted  suitor. 

He  refused  to  believe  the  report,  until  he  had  vent- 
ured, without  invitation,  to  call  on  her,  and  had  been 
informed  that  Miss  Stafford  was  "not  at  home/'  and 
then  he  tried  to  forget  his  chagrin  amid  the  diversions 
of  New  York. 

Idling  the  time  away,  in  a  moody  spirit,  he  came 
unexpectedly  on  a  college  chum — Lyndon  Curtis,  son 
of  a  Virginia  planter ;  a  generous,  indolent  fellow 
of  the  better  sort;  a  tall,  graceful,  dark-eyed  young 
man;  whose  clothing,  well-cared-for  black  hair  and 
mustache  —  something  rarely  seen  on  Northern  men 
— betokened  the  gentleman  of  leisure,  and  whose  cord- 
ial manner  showed  the  warmth  of  a  pleasure  -  loving 
nature. 

"By  all  the  powers/'  Curtis  said,  as  they  shook 
hands,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you!  You  are  just  in  time 
to  go  with  me  to  the  sea-shore." 

"Let  me  improve  on  that  suggestion,"  Graham  re- 
plied. "  Let's  go  up  north  and  have  a  few  days'  hunt- 
ing and  fishing. " 

"1  think  we  had  better  try  the  shore,"  Curtis  said, 
hesitatingly. 

"  You  can  always  have  the  sea-shore,"  Graham  urged, 
"but  not  always  the  pleasures  of  the  northern  woods. 
Come  up  with  me  and  have  a  week  in  the  hills." 

"Well,  that  is  an  inducement,"  Curtis  admitted. 
"1  was  thinking  of  the  inconvenience  it  might  be  to 
your  mother,  but — " 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  boy.  I  don't  live  at  home. 
I  have  bachelor  apartments  at  the  inn.  They  are  at 
your  serviJe — and  you'll  find  them  comfortable." 

Within  the  week,  he  proved  the  truth  of  this  assertion. 

155 


Martin    Brook 

The  cool  quiet  of  the  place,  after  the  days  of  heat  in 
the  city,  was  delightful  to  him,  as  he  and  Graham  sat 
on  the  inn  porch. 

"  Why,  man,  this  is  ideal!"  he  said. 

"  Well,  yes — as  a  retreat.  If  you  neglect  that  bottle, 
my  boy,  I'll  cut  you  dead.  Here's  to  the  pranks  at 
Union!" 

' '  If  Nott,  why  not?'  "  Curtis  sang,  clinking  glasses  in 
a  merry  revival  of  those  scenes.  "  Do  you  remember 
the  night  you  put  the  skeleton  in  little  Judson's  bed?" 

"  Do  you  remember  the  time  you  plastered  him  with 
the  custard-pie,  and  made  him  swear  he  liked  it?"  Gra- 
ham returned. 

They  were  making  the  quiet  village  resound  with 
laughter  when  Judge  Northcote  came  in  sight.  He 
heard  the  voices  on  the  inn  porch  and  glanced  up; 
but,  seeing  Graham,  made  no  sign  of  recognition,  as 
he  went  into  the  post-office. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman  ?"  Curtis  inquired,  with 
unusual  interest. 

"  Judge  Northcote,"  Graham  said,  indifferently.  "  Do 
3Tou  remember — " 

Suddenly  Curtis  leaned  over  the  porch  rail  and  looked 
intently  at  a  negro  who  was  passing.  Graham  was 
filling  the  glasses  and  did  not  notice  his  friend's  move- 
ment. 

"  How  in  the  deuce  did  he  get  here?"  Curtis  exclaimed. 

"Who?"  said  Graham. 

"Why,  old  Enoch." 

For  a  moment  Graham  did  not  comprehend  the  sit- 
uation. 

"  Look  out,"  he  said  :   " 37ou'll  upset  your  glass." 

"Yes,"  said  Curtis,  "that's  old  Enoch  for  sure." 

Instantly  the  thought  flashed  through  Graham's 
mind:  Curtis,  a  Southerner,  recognized  Enoch,  who 
was  Martin  Brook's  friend.     He  got  up  and  stood  by 

156 


Martin    Brook 

the  railing,  while  Enoch  went  on  to  the  Sentinel  office; 
unlocked  the  door  and  passed  into  the  hall. 

Graham  turned  around  and  took  up  his  glass,  spill- 
ing some  of  the  wine.  "  Where  did  you  ever  see  the 
old  darky  before ?"  He  sipped  at  the  glass,  watching 
Curtis  with  a  look  of  cunning  in  his  small  eyes. 

"Where?  Why,  he  was  my  father's  body-servant. 
I  was  brought  up  with  him.     I'd  know  him  anywhere." 

"A  runaway  nigger,  eh?"  Graham  said,  showing 
his  teeth  in  silent  laughter. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  he  is ;  but  after  my  father's  death 
I  had  too  much  on  my  hands  to  keep  up  the  hunt  for 
him.  He  was  always  a  bother— always  a  troublesome 
boy — full  of  notions." 

"He  ran  away  five  or  six  years  ago?" 

"Yes,  maybe  longer." 

Enoch  reappeared  on  the  street,  with  a  book  under 
his  arm.  He  came  across  to  the  post-office.  Curtis 
rose  as  if  to  speak  to  him,  but  Graham  quietly  pushed 
him  back  into  his  chair. 

"Get  a  good  look  at  him,"  he  whispered,  "but  don't 
speak  to  him,  or  let  him  see  you.  I'll  tell  you  why 
later  on.  Pull  your  hat  down  over  your  face."  Curtis 
did  so,  wondering  at  Graham's  caution. 

"Good-evening,  Enoch,"  Graham  called  out. 

"Ebenin',  Marse  Graham,"  Enoch  said,  hat  in  hand. 

"There's  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it,"  Curtis  as- 
serted, after  Enoch  had  gone  on.  "But  pshaw!  He 
isn't  worth  bothering  about."  Then,  thoughtfully: 
"Except  on  principle." 

"Precisely  so,"  said  Graham,  quickly.  "Come  up- 
stairs to  my  room,  and  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  He  didn't 
recognize  you,  and  we  shall  have  no  trouble  in  finding 
him  when  you  want  him." 

157 


Chapter  XIV 

GRAHAM  led  the  way  to  his  rooms.  He  called  for 
wine  and  appeared  to  be  at  ease,  but  he  was  not  pleased 
at  the  young  planter's  attitude.  His  mind  ran  hurriedly 
over  a  hundred  plans.  Here  was  the  longed-for  op- 
portunity, if  he  could  but  devise  a  way  to  compass  it. 
The  mere  surrender  of  the  man  b}T  Northcote  would 
put  an  end  to  the  revenge  he  was  seeking.  Something 
must  be  done  to  wring  that  upstart  Martin's  heart — 
to  make  him  suffer. 

"I  tell  3Tou,  Curtis/'  Graham  insisted,  "he  is  worth 
bothering  about.  As  you  say,  it  is  a  question  of  prin- 
ciple: Why,  the  gentleman  this  nigger  has  imposed 
upon  would  be  seriously  offended  if  he  were  to  learn 
that  you  had  permitted  him  to  remain  an  abettor  of 
crime." 

"Yes?  Yes,  it  would  be  a  crime  if  this  gentleman 
were  trying  to  rob  me.  But,  upon  my  word,  Graham, 
it's  such  an  inconvenience  to  me  over  a  small  matter — 
the  man  isn't  worth  the  bother. " 

"He's  worth  just  what  the  principle  involved  is 
worth." 

"That's  true,"  Curtis  agreed.  "Do  you  know  how 
he  manages  to  live?" 

"He  is  the  body-servant  to  a  gentleman." 

"What!"  cried^Curtis.  "Why,  that  is  an  insult  to 
my  father's  memory!" 

"  Yes,  but  not  an  intentional  one.  Judge  Northcote 
is  a  lawyer,  and  he — " 

158 


Martin    Brook 

"  Judge  Northcote?  That  distinguished  looking  man 
who  passed  us  to-night  as  we  sat  on  the  inn  piazza?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why,  he  has  the  manner  of  a  Virginian.  He  would 
not  do  a  dishonorable  act." 

"  He  is  of  Virginia  stock.  His  mother  was  a  Fair- 
field;  he  inherited  slaves,  and  then  set  them  free;  he 
knows  the  fine  distinctions  and — " 

"  By  Jove,  you  are  right !  I  owe  him  the  courtesy 
of  a  statement.  Where  can  we  find  him?"  Curtis  said, 
starting  up,  impetuously. 

Graham  smiled.  "You  seem  in  haste.  Don't  get 
excited,  dear  boy.  In  the  morning  we  can  go  to  his 
house." 

"To  his  office,  not  his  house,"  Curtis  corrected  him. 
"This  is  a  business  matter.  You  say  he  is  a  lawyer; 
he  has  an  office,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am — that  is,  I  know  the  better  way  is  to 
go  to  his  house." 

Something  in  Graham's  tone  made  Curtis  turn  on  him. 

"  Wiry  do  you  take  such  an  interest  in  this  affair?" 

"Oh,"  Graham  said,  shiftily,  "why,  the  fact  is,  I 
have  received  a  good  many  courtesies  at  the  hands  of 
the  judge  myself,  and  I  think  it  only  proper  for  me  to 
relieve  him  of  the  gossip  that  the  village  people  indulge 
in  at  his  expense.  I  presume  every  one  suspects  that 
the  nigger  is  a  runaway,  and  that  is  sufficient  to  keep 
the  tongues  wagging  in  a  little  place  like  this." 

"If  that  is  so,  of  course  Mr.  Northcote  must  be 
aware  of  the  talk,"  Curtis  said,  puzzled. 

"  No.  Let  us  not  do  him  that  injustice,"  Graham  said, 
pleased  at  his  own  adroitness.  "The  people  here  are 
held  aloof  from  intimacy  with  him  by  his  haughty 
manner.  No  one  would  dare  to  speak  to  him  about 
his  domestic  affairs.  That  is  exactly  what  has  kept  me 
silent."     He  played  with  his  glass  a  moment. 

159 


Martin    Brook 

"I  beg  your  pardon/'  Curtis  said,  indifferently.  "I 
mean  no  offence;  but  I'm  tired  of  this  bother.  Let's 
change  the  subject." 

He  filled  his  glass. 

"I  still  think  it  ought  not  to  be  dropped/'  Graham 
remarked,  in  a  judicial  tone.  "  Just  leave  it  to  me, 
if  you  don't  want  to  be  bothered." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  boy,  if  you  are  seeking  activity," 
Curtis  replied,  waving  his  hand  in  dismissal  of  the 
theme  as  he  walked  to  the  window. 

"As  you  intimated,"  Graham  said,  in  an  injured 
tone,  "it  isn't  any  of  my  business,  but  I — " 

"No,  no,  no,"  Curtis  protested,  facing  him.  "My 
dear  fellow,  I'm  a  thousand  times  obliged  to  you,  and 
1  simply  meant —  You're  nearest  the  bell-cord.  May 
I  trouble  you  to  jerk  it  ?  Thanks ! "  as  Graham  rose  and 
rang  the  bell.  "You  are  so  uncomfortably  energetic." 
Curtis  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"As  a  lawyer  and  a  friend  to  both  the  judge  and 
yourself,"  Graham  said,  standing  by  the  mantel,  "1 
advise  the  writing  of  a  letter  to  your  overseer  to  bring 
the  original  proof  of  the  runaway.  There  was  the 
usual  legal  order  for  his  arrest,  I  presume?" 

"Yes.  My  overseer,  Griffin,  attended  to  it,  I  fancy," 
said  Curtis,  with  a  yawn. 

"He  can  secure  new  papers,  at  all  events,  in  case 
of  there  being  none,"  Graham  mused.  "Then,  with 
them  in  hand,  there  can  be  no  defence  here — that  is, 
if  the  judge  is  disposed  to  show  legal  fight." 

"A  legal  fight?"  Curtis  said.  "  Why,  he  has  no 
case." 

A  servant  entered. 

"Another  bottle,"  Graham  said  to  him,  "and  bring 
us  writing-paper,  pens,  and  ink." 

He  walked  to  the  window,  and  thoughtfully  puffed 
at  his  cigar,   saying   nothing   until  the  things  were 

160 


Martin    Brook 

brought.  Then  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  overseer,  while 
Curtis  stood  idly  by  the  table,  watching  him.  It  was 
an  order  to  come  to  Sandy  Hill  and  claim  the  runaway, 
Enoch.  He  laid  the  document  in  front  of  Curtis,  who 
merely  glanced  at  it  and  dashed  in  his  signature.  To 
the  young  Southerner  the  act  was  purely  a  formality. 
But  before  Graham  slept  that  night,  he  had  despatch- 
ed his  own  servant  with  the  letter,  telling  him  to  spare 
neither  money  nor  horses  to  catch  the  boat  at  Albany, 
and  go  to  Virginia  by  the  quickest  route,  returning 
with  Griffin  at  once.  In  the  morning,  he  so  interested 
Curtis  with  the  preparations  for  the  hunting-trip  that 
Northcote  and  Enoch  were  not  even  mentioned  by  the 
young  planter. 

Pleasantly  located  in  the  woods,  in  a  pioneer's  cabin, 
Graham  counted  off  the  days  that  must  elapse  before 
the  overseer  could  reach  Sandy  Hill.  He  figured  that, 
if  nothing  happened  to  prevent,  the  man  should  arrive 
within  a  month  with  the  papers.  So  he  timed  their  stay, 
and  returned  to  Sandy  Hill  on  the  very  day  that  Griffin 
reached  there. 

The  overseer  was  anxious  to  get  to  business  at  once, 
but  Curtis  was  indifferent.  "  Oh,  don't  bother  me  now," 
he  said.  "  I'm  stiff  with  the  ride  over  the  rough  roads. 
I'll  rest  a  bit.     There's  no  hurry." 

"That's  right,"  Graham  interposed.  "This  is  a 
matter  1  will  see  to — to-morrow,  perhaps,  or  next  day. 
No  haste,  you  know."  And  he  induced  Curtis  to  go  to 
his  rooms  for  a  few  hours'  rest.  But  he  told  the  over- 
seer, in  his  own  way,  of  the  case. 

"  This  Northcote  is  an  abolitionist,"  he  said.  "  You'll 
have  a  fight,  maybe.  Have  your  irons  ready.  Mr. 
Curtis  will  be  rested  by  evening,  and  we  will  go  up  to 
the  house.  You  follow  us,  with  an  officer,  and  watch 
my  movements." 

L  161 


Martin    Brook 

Graham  procured  the  needed  local  help  for  the  carry- 
ing out  of  his  designs.  He  hired  a  horse  and  cart,  with 
orders  to  his  servant  to  bring  them  into  the  public  street 
in  front  of  the  inn  that  evening.  He  set  the  village 
agog  with  vague  hints  of  something  that  was  about 
to  happen  at  Elmhurst. 

After  supper,  while  Curtis  was  idling  on  the  inn  porch, 
Graham  came  to  him  in  a  careless  way.  "Come,  old 
man,  let's  take  a  stroll." 

"Oh,  let  me  alone,"  Curtis  protested.  "It's  comfort- 
able here." 

The  street  before  the  inn  was  filling  with  a  silent, 
curious,  expectant  crowd. 

Graham  thrust  his  arm  in  Curtis's,  and  guided  him, 
still  protesting,  towards  Elmhurst.  In  front  of  the 
mansion  he  paused. 

"This  is  Elmhurst — Judge  Northcote's  place.  By- 
the-way,  suppose  we  go  in  and  speak  to  him/'  Gra- 
ham said,  with  assumed  nonchalance. 

" No,"  replied  Curtis,  "  that  would  be  an  intrusion." 

"  You  don't  understand  our  customs,  Mr.  Curtis. 
This  is  no  intrusion.  You  go  as  my  guest,  to  pay 
honor  to  a  distinguished  citizen.  If  you  happen  to 
find  37our  property — " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Curtis,  resentfully,  perceiving 
Graham's  purpose  in  asking  him  to  walk.  "That's 
not  the  view  I  take  of  it.  It's  a  point  of  common  cour- 
tesy I'm  considering.  I  shall  not  go  where  I  am  un- 
invited. Besides,  when  I  do  meet  this  gentleman,  I 
shall  tell  him  at  once  my  business  with  him,  and  I  shall 
seek  him  professionally  at  his  office." 

"And  ruin  your  case?  The  judge  might  question 
your  identity." 

Curtis  stood  still  in  amazement.  "Question  my 
identity?    Aren't  you  my  sponsor?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  Graham  hastily  exclaimed. 

162 


Martin    Brook 

"But  Northcote  is  so  deuced  impulsive.     He  would  not 
hesitate  to  fly  at  his  best  friend  if  he  became  angry." 

"A  very  strange  man,  I  must  say/'  Curtis  replied. 
"I  shall  study  him  with  interest,  when  I  do  meet 
him." 

"That's  it,"  Graham  said,  eagerly.  "Observe  him. 
I'll  give  you  a  hint  how  to  meet  him.  Once  you  get  on 
his  blind  side,  he's  the  most  charming  of  men.  Come 
in  now.  Let  me  lead  up  to  the  pet  theme  of  his  library. 
It's  worth  seeing.  You'll  enjoy  that.  And  I  want  to 
ask  him  some  questions  on  property  rights." 

Curtis  reluctantly  consented,  his  misgivings  about 
these  "customs  01  the  North"  yielding  to  his  sense  of 
courtesy  to  his  host. 

As  they  passed  through  the  gates  and  up  the  winding 
walk,  Graham  glanced  back  to  be  sure  that  no  mistake 
was  possible  with  the  overseer  and  his  assistant.  He 
let  Curtis  advance,  while  he  stopped  a  moment  and 
signalled  to  the  men.  "Stand  where  you  can  see  the 
house,  and  watch  for  me,"  he  whispered.  "When  I 
wave  my  handkerchief,  come  up  quickly.  Now  keep 
out  of  sight."  The  men  dropped  down  by  the  wall. 
Graham  caught  up  with  Curtis. 

"Isn't  this  superb!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  view  of 
the  river  is  unsurpassed.  And  the  mansion.  Doesn't 
it  remind  you  of  home?" 

"A  most  beautiful  spot.  Yes,  it  is  a  Southern 
home,  surely,"  Curtis  said,  admiringly. 

"Judge  Northcote,"  Graham  said,  as  he  approached 
the  steps,  hat  in  hand,  coolly  assuming  the  manner 
of  an  accustomed  visitor  to  the  place,  "I  have  taken 
the  liberty  to  bring  my  friend,  Mr.  Lyndon  Curtis, 
to  view  the  scene  from  your  grounds.  Mr.  Curtis,  our 
distinguished  citizen,  Judge  Northcote." 

"You  are  welcome,"  said  the  judge,  meeting  the 
stranger  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  but  politely  unconscious 

163 


Martin    Brook 

of  Graham.     "  And  I  am  confident  I  cannot  be  mistaken 
in  saying  you  are  from  the  South?" 

"My  home  is  in  Virginia/'  Curtis  replied,  "but  I 
am  of  the  impression  that  I  am  still  at  home/' 

"  You  do  me  honor,  and  you  also  honor  the  memory 
of  my  parents.     My  mother  was  a  Fairfield. " 

"  So  Mr.  Graham  was  saying/'  Curtis  replied, warmly. 
"  But  I  should  have  recognized  the  Southern  spirit  in 
the  mansion/' 

"I  have  brought  Mr.  Curtis  here,  judge,"  Graham 
interposed,  "  to  prove  that  we  can  sustain  our  claim  to 
the  best  -  appointed  library  in  this  count}7.  I  was  dis- 
cussing the  subject  of  Northern  culture  with  him,  and 
named  you  as  our  most  notable  example.  I  trust 
Martin  is  at  home?" 

"He  is  in  the  library,"  the  judge  said,  coldly.  "He 
was  writing  when  1  came  out.  These  sunsets  ought 
not  to  be  missed,"  turning  to  Curtis  with  a  marked 
change  of  tone,  "  and  if  you  will  favor  me  by  taking  a 
glass  of  wine  here,  we  can  enjoy  the  scene  and  examine 
the  library  at  our  leisure. " 

"Our  time  is  limited,  judge,"  Graham  interposed. 

This  out-door  stage-setting  was  too  large  for  his  pur- 
pose— the  chances  for  effect  were  diminished.  Besides, 
Martin  was  not  present.  The  libran^  was  the  place. 
He  must  group  his  people.  The  judge  had  uncon- 
sciously given  him  a  cue — the  library  was  the  very 
place.  He  hastened  to  say:  "If  you  will  pardon  us, 
a  glance  at  the  books,  and  then  an  evening  view  from 
the  porch." 

"As  you  please,  gentlemen."  The  judge  looked  in 
puzzled  annoyance  at  Graham,  but  bowed  his  assent, 
leading  the  way  inside. 

Graham  went  in  last,  turning  to  assure  himself  that 
the  view  was  not  obstructed  from  the  library  window. 

164 


Chapter  XV 

"MARTIN/'  said  the  judge  as  he  entered  the  library, 
"Mr.  Curtis,  a  gentleman  from  the  old  State.  Mr. 
Curtis,  Martin  Brook,  who  is  soon  to  bear  my  name 
by  adoption.  Mr.  Curtis  will  join  us  in  a  glass  of  the 
Madeira  here."  He  went  to  the  bell,  without  alluding 
to  Graham. 

"I  am  glad  to  know  you,"  Martin  said,  shaking 
Curtis 's  hand,  but  simply  bowing  to  Graham.  "Judge 
Northcote  has  told  me  so  much  of  your  State  that  I  feel 
almost  like  a  Virginian/' 

"  You  have  a  competent  instructor,  I  am  sure,"  Curtis 
replied,  unable  to  conceal  his  uneasiness.  "I  wish 
first  to  say  that  I  owe  both  yourself  and  the  judge 
an  apology  for  coming  here,  as  I  do,  apparently  a 
guest — " 

"Apparently?"  Graham  interrupted,  with  a  nervous 
laugh. 

"Yes,"  said  Curtis,  positively.  "There  is  an  ex- 
planation to  make.  I  am  intruding  on  your  hospital- 
ity.    My  real  motive  in  coming  here — " 

The  judge  intercepted  Enoch  at  the  door,  who  came 
in  response  to  the  bell,  and  gave  a  whispered  order  about 
the  old  Madeira  which  made  the  negro's  face  glow  with 
importance.  He  now  joined  the  group  in  time  to  over- 
hear Curtis 's  words. 

"Intruding,  my  dear  sir?  A  gentleman  from  Vir- 
ginia can  never  be  an  intruder  here.  Martin,  will 
3^ou  please  throw  back  those  curtains  and  let  in  a  little 

165 


Martin    Brook 

more  light  ?    Thank  you, ' '  as  Martin  went  to  a  window, 
Graham  following  him. 

"You  are  recently  arrived  here  from  your  home?,' 
the  judge  asked. 

"Yes.  Mr.  Graham  and  I  were  at  Union  College, 
and  we  met  by  chance  down  in  New  York  about  a  month 
ago  and  renewed  our  acquaintance.  I  came  up  here 
for  a  hunting- trip  with  him,  and  we  have  just  returned 
from  the  woods  to-day.  This  is  a  most  delightful 
country,  and  1  add  the  pleasure  of  this  call  to  my  ex- 
periences/ ' 

"Thank  you.  We  natter  ourselves  that  we  have 
some  rare  books.  If  it  were  lighter — "  He  faced  tow- 
ards the  windows.  The  sun  was  nearing  the  top  of 
the  hills.  He  was  surprised  to  see  Graham  waving  a 
handkerchief  to  some  one  evidently  in  the  yard  below. 

"  Let  us  have  the  candles,  Martin/'  the  judge  sug- 
gested.    "  It  is  really  too  dark  for  us  to  see." 

"Not  to-night,  Judge  Northcote,  if  you  will  pardon 
me/'  Curtis  said.  "I  overheard  Mr.  Graham  say  his 
time  was  limited.  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  on  a  matter 
of  business/' 

"Business?"  the  judge  said,  surprised.  "But,  that 
must  not  prevent  you  from  seeing  my  books.  Come 
at  any  hour  to  suit  your  convenience.  My  time  and 
house  are  yours  while  you  remain  in  Sandy  Hill.  It 
is  not  often  that  I  am  honored  with  a  guest  from  dear 
old  Virginia,  and  when — " 

A  crash  of  shattered  glass  cut  short  his  speech. 

Enoch  had  entered  the  room  while  the  judge  was 
speaking,  bringing  a  tray  on  which  were  glasses  and 
a  decanter  of  the  rare  old  Madeira  which  was  the  pride 
of  Elmhurst.  These  now  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor, 
and  Enoch  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  stiff  with 
fear,  his  jaw  dropped,  his  eyes  staring  whitely  at  the 
stranger,  gasping: 

166 


Martin    Brook 

"Marse  Lyndon \" 

Curtis  took  a  step  forward,  with  an  involuntary 
show  of  relief,  his  head  lifted  in  affirmative  gesture. 
Judge  Northcote  looked  questioningly  from  the  young 
man  to  Enoch. 

Martin,  who  had  not  heard  Enoch's  exclamation, 
started  towards  the  servant  with  a  low  word  of  sympa- 
thy.    He  did  not  comprehend  Enoch's  attitude  of  fear. 

But  Graham  intercepted  him,  and,  pushing  Enoch 
into  the  room,  stationed  himself  in  the  doorway. 

"  By  your  leave,"  he  said,  mockingly. 

"Pardon  me,"  Martin  responded,  gazing  at  him  in 
surprise.  "  This  is  a  trifling  accident.  Enoch,  another 
service."  He  turned  once  more  to  the  servant,  and 
saw  that  Enoch  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  with 
hands  held  up  appealingly  to  Mr.  Curtis,  who  was 
advancing  towards  the  judge. 

"I  see,"  said  Curtis,  "that  the  explanation  I  was  at- 
tempting to  make  is  unnecessary  now.  How  long 
has  this  negro  been  with  you?" 

The  judge  did  not  reply,  and  Martin  answered  for 
him :  " Enoch  has  been  in  our  family  many  years." 

"Possibly  five  years?"  Curtis  asked. 

"  Fully  that  long,"  Martin  said,  nettled  at  the  implica- 
tion of  awkward  service.  "Pray  do  not  judge  of  him 
by  this  mishap.  As  the  judge  was  saying,  we  must 
have  more  light  here."     He  went  to  the  window. 

The  judge,  however,  perceived  another  meaning  in 
the  question,  and  at  the  same  time  he  saw  that  Martin 
did  not  grasp  the  situation. 

"Mr.  Curtis,"  Northcote  said,  "may  1  request  you 
to  make  your  business  known?" 

His  tone  made  Martin  turn  about  quickly. 

"  My  business,  sir,  is  to  tell  Judge  Northcote  he  is 
harboring  one  of  my  runaway  slaves. " 

"  Your  slave!"  Martin  said,  going  to  Enoch. 

167 


Martin    Brook 

"And  you  came  here,  Mr.  Curtis/'  the  judge  went  on, 
unheeding  the  interruption,  "with  that  intention,  yet 
professing  to  wish  to  see  my  library  ?" 

"My  coming  here  to-night  was  somewhat  unpre- 
meditated, but  this  is  now  my  business/ ' 

A  suspicion  of  Curtis's  identity  flashed  through 
the  judge's  mind.  Was  he  an  impostor?  Was  he 
merely  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  Graham? 

"  Unpremeditated  ?  Do  1  understand  3^ou,  Mr.  Curtis, 
to  say  unpremeditated?" 

"Yes,  sir/' Curtis  replied,  resenting  the  judge's  man- 
ner, but  trying  to  preserve  his  temper.  "Circum- 
stances prevented  my  speaking  sooner." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  judge.  "  Circumstances  in  the  person 
of  Mr.  Graham  ?  1  begin  to  understand  why  that  man, 
who  is  not  permitted  to  visit  me  at  my  office,  should 
presume  to  call  at  my  house." 

Curtis  looked  at  Graham.  He  recalled  his  host's 
remark  about  going  to  the  office,  yet  instinctively  re- 
plied : 

"I  am  Mr.  Graham's  guest."  Then,  suggestively, 
"  But  I  contend  that  I  have  also  the  right  to  come  here, 
since  you  are  keeping  this  negro — " 

"You  learned  of  this  alleged  fugitive  through  him?" 
the  judge  persisted. 

"  Alleged  fugitive?     Do  you  imply  that — " 

"Pardon  me,  I  imply  nothing.  I  prefer  the  direct 
form  of  speech.  You  have  come  to  my  house  in  a  some- 
what equivocal  character.  Perhaps  you  will  favor  me 
with  a  fuller  explanation."  The  snuff -box  was  in 
his  hand — he  tapped  it  vigorously. 

"The  explanation  is  due  from  you,  Mr.  Northcote," 
said  Curtis.  "Why  did  you  not  ascertain  who  this 
man  was?" 

Martin  confronted  Curtis.  "  How  do  we  know  that  you 
are  his  master?" 

168 


Martin    Brook 

Curtis  grew  pale  with  anger.  "  Hasn't  he  acknowl- 
edged me?" 

Martin  stepped  back  perplexed,  and  looked  at  Enoch. 
"Acknowledged  you?" 

Judge  Northcote  dropped  his  box  into  his  pocket 
and  walked  up  to  the  negro  with  a  scowling  face. 

"Enoch,  who  is  this  man?" 

"Young  Marse  Lyndon,  sah." 

"Your  master?" 

"Yes,  Marse  No' thcote." 

The  judge  again  took  out  his  snuff-box,  tapped  it 
hard,  and  held  the  pinch  poised  in  the  air  as  he  paced 
thoughtfully  away  to  the  farther  side  of  the  room. 

Graham  smiled  at  this  unusual  display  of  agitation, 
and  beckoned  to  some  one  in  the  corridor. 

"I  received  the  information  of  Enoch's  where- 
abouts," Curtis  said,  with  subdued  passion,  "in  a 
most  friendly  spirit.  I  told  Graham  I  cared  nothing 
for  the  negro.  I  was  willing  to  give  him  his  freedom. 
But  you  have  seen  fit  to  insult  me." 

"No,"  said  the  judge,  facing  towards  Curtis  across 
the  room,  "  this  is  not  a  personal  matter,  sir ;  it  is  more 
to  me  than  you  can  understand." 

Graham  laughed  aloud. 

"Pardon  me,"  Curtis  replied,  haughtily.  "You 
questioned  my  motive,  and  this  young  man  has  done 
worse.  Now,  I  shall  not  recede  from  my  rights.  I 
demand  the  surrender  of  my  property." 

"Property?"  Martin  cried,  contemptuously. 

The  judge  came  forward.  "  Mr.  Curtis,  will  you  dis- 
pose of  this  man — will  you  sell  him  to  me?" 

"  Not  for  all  your  estate,"  he  replied,  his  head  lifted 
defiantly.  "I  shall  demand  him  in  the  name  of  the 
law." 

"You  will  find  that  a  difficult  demand,"  Martin  as- 
serted. 

169 


Martin    Brook 

"You  are  insolent/'  Curtis  retorted.  He  turned  from 
Martin  to  the  judge.  "I  beg  you  to  consider  me,  sir, 
for  these  few  minutes,  not  as  a  guest.  This  interview 
has  taken  on  another  aspect.  However  I  may  have 
entered  your  house,  I  am  now  here  purely  on  a  question 
of  business.  You  are  guilty  of  harboring  a  runaway. 
You  are  a  violator  of  the  law,  and  I  shall  regard  you 
in  that  light.  I  assumed  at  first  that  you  did  this  in- 
nocently, but  I  do  not  believe  that  you  are  ignorant  of 
the  law.  We  have  a  name  for  men  who  interfere  with 
our  rights.     We  call  them  abolitionists  1" 

The  judge's  face  grew  ashen. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "it  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me 
to  say  that  I  did  not  know  this  man  was  a  fugi- 
tive." 

"It  was  your  duty  to  inquire,"  Curtis  responded. 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  receive  such  a  remark  from  you. 
While  you  are  under  my  roof,  you  are  my  guest,  in  spite 
of  your  disclaimer,  but  I  am  sorry  that  you  informed 
me  you  are  a  Virginian." 

The  color  flooded  into  Curtis's  face.  A  Virginian? 
Was  he  acting  like  one  ? 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,  Judge  Northcote,"  he  said, 
"and  you,  sir,"  looking  at  Martin.  "This  is  a  very 
unfortunate  affair.  I  regret  it  exceedingly  and  am 
willing  to — " 

"The  law  is  clear,  Curtis,"  Graham  called,  loudly, 
from  the  doorway.  "  You  can't  change  that  fact.  If 
you  want  to  let  this  nigger  go,  you  must  take  him 
back  to  your  own  State  first.  The  law  prohibits  the 
sale  of  a  slave  in  this  State.  And  if  you  give  him  away 
here,  you  condone  their  action." 

"I  am  able  to  judge  of  that  for  myself,  Mr.  Graham," 
Curtis  replied. 

"You're  not  the  man  I  took  you  to  be,  Curtis,"  Gra- 
ham insisted,  "  if  you  endure  the  insults  of  this  young 

170 


Martin    Brook 

fellow,  who  has  kept  this  slave  here  all  these  years, 
knowing  him  to  be  a  runaway/' 

"1  did  not  know  he  was  a  fugitive/'  the  judge  re- 
peated. 

"  Well/'  said  Graham,  hotly,  "  I'll  bet  your  hopeful  son 
did." 

" It  is  false,"  the  judge  declared.  "Your  word  is  not 
unimpeachable."  He  turned  to  Martin,  who  offered  no 
reply. 

Graham  looked  keenly  at  them.  He  saw  that  a  chance 
shot  had  struck  a  vulnerable  spot,  and  burst  into  a 
mocking  laugh. 

"Martin,"  said  the  judge,  "am  I  mistaken  in  you?" 

Martin  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  judge's. 

"I  knew  from  the  first  that  Enoch  was  a  fugitive," 
he  said,  firmly. 

He  saw  the  lines  deepen  in  his  benefactor's  face — 
the  man  seemed  to  age  in  a  moment. 

"Ah,"  said  Graham,  "now  we  are  getting  at  the 
facts.  Curtis,  remember  that  you  are  entitled  to  com- 
pensation for  the  nigger's  services." 

"1  will  compensate  you,"  Martin  said,  withdrawing 
his  eyes  from  the  judge. 

Northcote  slowly  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  with 
his  handkerchief  in  his  hand. 

"Compensate  me?"  Curtis  said,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip. 
"  Do  you  imagine  I  would  take  money  in  a  case  of  this 
kind?" 

"  What  else  can  I  think  of  a  man  who  deals  in  human 
flesh  and  blood?" 

Curtis  turned  on  Martin  with  blazing  eyes.  "So 
you  are  the  one?"  he  exclaimed.  "Graham,  I  leave 
this  to  you — and  wash  my  hands  of  the  matter  en- 
tirely.    You  are  right.     Take  the  slave." 

He  started  impulsively  towards  the  door. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  the  judge  said.     "I  will  not  let 

171 


Martin    Brook 

you  go  away  with  a  wrong  impression.     The  circum- 
stances— " 

"  The  circumstances,  Judge  Northcote,  are  very  plain. 
You  can  see  for  yourself  that  this  negro  belongs  to  me, 
and  I  doubt  if  you  will  dispute  my  right  to  claim  my 
property,  now  that  I  have  found  him.  I  don't  think 
Mr.  Graham — " 

"Please  leave  his  name  out  of  the  conversation. 
You  demand  this  man  as  your  slave?" 

"1  certainly  do/' 

"Of  course  we  do,"  insisted  Graham.  "Any  other 
action  would  overturn  the  laws  of  the  country.  A  run- 
away nigger  can  be  taken  wherever  he  is  found,  and  he 
must  be,  too,  or  property  rights  are  not  worth  a  rush. 
The  laws  must  be  upheld.  If  }^ou  go  home,  Curtis, 
leaving  this  nigger  to  tell  his  story,  the  abolitionists 
won't  leave  a  chattel  on  your  plantation ;  and  you  have 
seen  enough  right  here,  in  the  first  family  of  a  Northern 
town,  to  know  what  that  means." 

"You  seem  to  like  this  thing  better  than  I  do,  Gra- 
ham," Curtis  said.     "  1  leave  it  to  you." 

Without  a  word  to  Martin,  he  bowed  to  the  judge 
and  went  out,  walking  rapidly  through  the  gathering 
crowd  on  the  street,  straight  to  the  inn. 

Graham  waved  his  hand  in  the  corridor  and  then  came 
forward,  holding  a  legal  document  in  his  hand. 

"  Judge  Northcote,  here  is  the  court's  order.  Do  you 
question  the  legality  of  the  court?" 

But  the  judge  ignored  him.     Graham  grew  angry. 

Martin  stepped  between  Graham  and  Enoch.  "I 
question  it !     1  shall  not  let  you  take  him,"  Martin  said. 

"You  won't,  eh?"  sneered  Graham.  "How  can  you 
help  it?" 

"I'll  pitch  you,  neck  and  heels,  out  of  the  window!" 

"Stop,  Martin,"  said  the  judge.  "This  is  no  place 
for  brawls." 

172 


Martin    Brook 

"No,"  cried  Graham,  "it's  the  place  where  they  har- 
bor runaway  niggers  and  street  brats." 

Martin  sprang  at  Graham,  but  the  judge  caught 
him  and  held  him  back. 

"Leave  this  house,  sir!"  the  judge  commanded 
Graham. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Graham.  "  Not  quite  yet.  The  work 
isn't  finished." 

Two  men  stood  in  the  doorway.  "There  he  is," 
Graham  said,  nodding  towards  Enoch,  who  cowered 
on  the  floor.     "Put  the  irons  on  him." 

The  men  advanced.  In  an  instant  Enoch  was  on 
his  feet,  standing  at  bay.  He  was  no  longer  the  abject 
slave,  but  an  animal  fighting  for  life.  He  seized  a 
chair  and  swung  it  before  him.     The  men  retreated. 

Enoch,  watching  his  opportunity,  dropped  the  chair 
and  sprang  for  the  door.  The  overseer  darted  at  his 
back  and  gripped  him.  Enoch  fell  heavily,  striking 
against  the  door-casing,  and  lay,  half- stunned,  with  a 
gash  in  his  forehead. 

"Here,  give  me  those  irons!"  Graham  ordered. 

The  clink  of  metal  sounded  in  the  darkening  room 
like  the  teeth  of  an  angry  wolf. 

"Judge  Northcote,"  Martin  cried,  his  face  pale, 
his  hand  held  out  in  appeal,  "do  you  permit  this  out- 
rage?" 

"  It  is  the  law,"  the  judge  said,  dropping  into  a  chair, 
his  head  resting  on  his  palm. 

"The  law!"  Martin  repeated,  scornfully,  with  head 
erect  and  arm  extended.  "  The  law  !  There  is  a 
higher  law  — the  law  of  God!  Think!  This  man 
once  saved  my  life!" 

"Impossible,"  the  judge  said,  firmly,  motioning  to 
end  the  scene. 

"Come,"  said  Griffin,  giving  Enoch  a  push  with  his 
foot.     "Get  up." 

173 


Martin    Brook 

"Stop!''  Martin  commanded.  His  tone  changed  to 
pleading.     "Judge,  I  will  pay  the  price,  if — " 

"Yes/'  said  Graham,  "you'll  pay  the  price  of  har- 
boring a  runaway  nigger/'  as  he  helped  the  men  drag 
Enoch  #long  the  floor.  Martin  interposed,  bracing 
himself  with  arms  outstretched  across  the  door. 

The  judge  stood  up,  pointing  a  finger  at  Enoch. 
"Let  them  pass.     No  one  man  is  superior  to  the  law." 

Martin  folded  his  arms,  still  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  The  time  will  come  when  every  just  man  will  say 
this  law  is  an  abomination/'  he  declared. 

"Then  let  us  wait  until  that  time  comes,"  the  judge 
replied,  turning  his  back  on  them  and  walking  slowly 
away,  his  head  bowed,  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

Enoch  rose  to  his  knees,  shook  the  men  from  him, 
and  lifted  his  fettered  hands. 

Once  more  he  was  a  slave. 

"Marse  No'thcote/'  Enoch  said,  "l's  tried  to  do  de 
bes'  I  could.  1  knowed  I  wus  a  runaway  nigger,  but 
1  had  to  lie,  sah,  an'  you  made  me  feel  1  wus  a  man. 
I  wants  to  thank  you,  sah,  an'  Mis'  Ma'get — 'deed 
I  do.  You  can't  help  me  now — no  one  can't — 'cept 
jes'  one  way.  Please,  Marse  No'thcote,  ask  Marse 
Graham  tak  de  irons  off'n  me,  sah.  l's  a  proud  ole 
nigger.  I  won't  make  no  break — 1  won't  do  no  ha'm — 
but  1  jes'  hates  to  go  frew  de  village  lak  l's  done  sumpin' 
to  you.  1  hain't  stole.  1  hain't  hurted  no  one.  Please 
tak  'em  off,  Marse  No'thcote." 

The  judge  made  no  reply.  He  was  lost  in  the  shadows 
of  the  drapery  of  the  window. 

Martin,  the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  turned 
to  Graham.  "  1  pledge  you  my  word  he  will  go  quietly. 
Will  you  take  the  irons  off  ?" 

But  Graham,  without  looking  at  him,  said  to  the 
men  :  "He's  a  sly  one.  He's  liable  to  kill  you  and 
break  away.     Take  him  along." 

174 


Martin    Brook 

They  hustled  Enoch  out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
corridor. 

The  house  servants,  aroused  by  the  unusual  dis- 
turbance, were  in  the  hall.  The  stable-boys  and  out- 
door men  came  hurrying  up  on  the  walks,  and  stood 
gaping  at  the  open  entrance,  from  which  came  the 
sound  of  voices  and  the  shuffling  of  feet. 

A  crowd  of  village  folk  was  collecting  in  the  street. 
Boys  were  running,  shouting  to  those  behind  them 
as  they  ran.  Men  were  walking  fast,  talking  ex- 
citedly. Something  was  happening  at  the  great 
house.  Some  were  saying  that  Enoch  had  murdered 
the  judge.  Rumors  that  no  one  could  locate  or  con- 
firm were  whirling  through  the  air. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  upper  corridor,  at  the  head  of 
the  great  stairway,  Enoch  was  holding  his  captors 
back.  Mrs.  Wright  was  hastening  towards  him,  her 
face  pale,  her  hands  held  out.  Martin  could  see  her 
in  clear  outline,  framed  by  the  west  window  of  the 
hall,  through  which  the  red  light  of  the  sunset  was 
streaming.  He  recalled  her  attitude  when  she  first 
received  him  at  Elmhurst. 

"  What  is  the  trouble  V  she  cried. 

"Oh,  nothing  you  need  bother  about/'  Graham 
said.     "Go  on!"  he  ordered. 

Enoch  brushed  him  aside  with  one  blow  of  his 
ironed  hands.  Graham  lunged  forward  and  caught 
at  the  bannisters,  making  them  creak  and  trem- 
ble. He  uttered  an  oath,  and  bounded  up  the 
steps. 

Enoch  knelt  before  Mrs.  Wright.  "  Tain't  nuffin, 
Mis'  Wright.  Dey's  found  ole  Enoch.  Thank  you 
for  all  you  done." 

"Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Wright  to  Graham,  "do  you  dare  to 
take  this  man  out  of  our  house  V 

Graham  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

175 


Martin    Brook 

"Martin!"  Mrs.  Wright  cried,  but  Martin  shook  his 
head. 

She  ran  to  the  library.  "George!  Will  no  one 
answer  me  ?    What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"Go  to  3'our  room,  Margaret,"  the  judge  said.  He 
had  come  out  of  the  library  now  and  was  watching 
the  men. 

"  1  will  not  go  to  my  room !  They  are  killing  Enoch ! " 
She  grasped  her  brother's  arm  and  pulled  him  to  the 
stairs.  "See,  they  are  taking  him  away — he's  hurt — 
bleeding — " 

She  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  still  urging  the 
judge  along. 

Martin,  his  face  flushed  with  the  exertion,  was  sup- 
porting Enoch  as  he  went  stumblingly  down  the 
stairs. 

The  chains  on  the  negro's  ankles  clattered  on  every 
step. 

"Martin!"  the  judge  called  from  the  top  of  the  stair- 
way, pushing  Mrs.  Wright  back  and  leaning  forward, 
one  hand  grasping  the  railing. 

But  Martin  did  not  heed  him,  for  he  was  still  clinging 
to  Enoch,  while  the  men  roughly  pushed  their  prisoner 
along  the  hall,  through  the  group  of  terrified  servants, 
and  out  on  to  the  portico. 

The  judge  ran  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Mrs. 
Wright,  who  was  wringing  her  hands  and  crying. 
Northcote  reached  the  doorway  as  the  men  dragged 
Enoch  down  the  stone  steps. 

Eph  Larrabee  came  running  up,  a  dog  barking  at 
his  heels. 

The  dog  leaped  fiercely  on  the  overseer,  who  grabbed 
him  and  threw  him  violently  on  the  sharp  edge  of  the 
lower  step.  The  animal  gave  a  yelp  —  the  servants 
shrieked — the  crowd  3Telled. 

u  What  on  earth — "  Eph  cried. 

176 


Martin    Brook 

"They're  going  to  take  Enoch  back  South/'  Martin 
said,  lifting  the  slave  to  his  feet. 

"  Back  South?"  Eph  repeated,  shoving  the  men  away. 

The  judge  was  now  standing  on  the  porch.  "Lar- 
rabee!"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  imperative  gesture. 

Eph  loosened  his  hold  on  the  overseer's  coat  and 
looked  at  the  judge  in  surprise. 

"Martin,"  the  judge  went  on,  in  the  same  tone  of 
command,  "I  forbid  you  to  interfere  with  the  officers." 

"I  shall  not  leave  him  to  their  mercy." 

"Let  him  go!" 

"I  will  not!" 

Before  Martin's  vision  floated  the  face  of  Helen  Staf- 
ford; he  saw  Judge  Northcote  and  Margaret  Wright 
as  through  a  mist.  An  awful  sense  of  the  situation 
surged  over  him — a  fathomless  abyss  yawned  at  his 
feet — and  from  an  infinite  distance  he  heard  the  voice 
of  Northcote,  like  the  voice  of  Fate,  above  the  torrent 
of  his  emotion,  mingling  with  the  words  of  Morris: 
"  God  gives  us  life.     He  gives  us  freedom ! " 

"  Do  you  defy  me?"  the  judge  demanded. 

"Yes!" 

The  Puritan  inflexibility  of  purpose  in  principle  over- 
mastered Martin's  self-interest  in  this  war  with  abstract 
justice.  He  stood  before  the  judge,  with  one  arm 
clutched  across  his  breast,  the  other  upraised,  his  eyes 
lifted  to  meet  those  of  the  man  who  had  taken  him  out 
of  bondage. 

The  judge's  eyes  flashed.  He  tried  to  speak — the 
words  choked  him.  He  laid  his  hand  over  his  throat. 
Martin  continued : 

"You  saved  me  from  a  tyrant.  Do  you  condemn 
me  for  doing  what  you  did  yourself?" 

"You — you  are  not  a  negro — you  were  not  a  slave." 
The  judge  wrenched  at  the  scarf  about  his  neck  and 
extended  his  hands  invitingly.  He  struggled  to  say 
M  177 


Martin    Brook 

more,  his  face  was  purple;    but  Martin's  voice  rang 
out: 

"If  I  had  been  a  negro  would  you  have  refused  to 
save  me?" 

"The  law— the  law—"  the  judge  cried.  "We  must 
obey  the  law!  My  dear  Martin,  can't  you  see — " 
His  voice  broke ;  he  trembled  with  emotion. 

"  No/'  said  Martin.  "  We  must  obey  the  law  of  mercy 
— the  law  of  justice.  God  will  not  forgive  you  or  me 
if  we  violate  it." 

Judge  Northcote's  face  grew  white.  All  tenderness 
disappeared.  His  fingers  tightened — he  raised  a  clinch- 
ed hand. 

"Do  you  presume  to  instruct  me — here,  before  all 
these  people — and  to  defy  my  authority?  1  tell  you, 
the  law  of  this  land  is  supreme.  Leave  that  man, 
and  come  into  the  house!" 

"Judge  Northcote,"  Martin's  words  came  slowly 
and  from  his  heart,  "  you  make  a  distinction  between 
a  black  man  and  a  white  man.  You  revere  a  law 
that  makes  humanity  a  crime.  1  love  you,  father, 
but  I  cannot  follow  you  here.  I  shall  go  with 
Enoch." 

He  turned  to  the  officer  and  pulled  up  his  sleeve. 
"You  can  put  one  handcuff  on  him  and  one  on  me, 
if  you're  afraid  of  me." 

The  officer  shook  his  head.  "I  ain't  afraid  of  the 
two  of  you." 

"Martin!"  pleaded  Mrs.  Wright.  "Are  you  losing 
your  senses?" 

"He's  losing  everything  he  has  in  life,"  the  judge 
cried  in  a  half-frenzy,  leaning  far  out  from  the  porch 
and  shaking  his  finger  as  he  spoke.  "He  is  disgrac- 
ing me — disgracing  the  name  of  Northcote!  Martin! 
Martin!  Stop!  If  you  follow  that  negro,  I  forbid  you 
to  return!" 

i78 


Martin    Brook 

"Dear  Martin!"  cried  Mrs.  Wright,  sobbingly,  "don't 

go  I     Come  back  to  us ! ' ' 

Martin  wavered  for  an  instant  at  this  appeal  of  love ; 
then  sadly  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  I  cannot  sell  my  manhood,  little  mother.  My 
place  is  here." 


END   OF   BOOK    I 


Book  II 


Chapter  I 

m 

FIVE  years  have  passed  since  Martin  Brook  left 
Elmhurst. 

He  is  standing  now,  at  the  close  of  a  June  day,  by  an 
open  window  of  a  little  cottage  in  the  village  of  Shel- 
burne,  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Lake  Champlain.  The 
hundred  miles  or  more — the  rough  and  rugged  miles  so 
wearisome  to  travellers  by  stage  and  packet-boat  and 
saddle — have  not  put  him  half  as  far  away  from  Sandy 
Hill  and  former  friends  as  have  his  experiences  during 
these  past  five  years. 

His  plain  black  clothes,  relieved  only  by  a  white  linen 
stock  that  is  nearly  concealed  under  the  rolling  collar 
of  his  coat — a  compromise  in  fashion  that  preserves 
the  clerical  aspect  and  rejects  the  tone  of  ritualism — 
indicate  his  calling  to  be  that  of  a  Methodist  preacher. 

The  lines  in  his  face  express  the  sub-conscious  au- 
sterity of  an  earnest  thinker.  The  mobility  of  his  feat- 
ures not  only  redeems  this  sternness,  but  conveys  a  sense 
of  innate  humor.  The  introspective  look  in  his  gray- 
blue  eyes  denotes  consecration  to  some  mighty  cause. 

There  are  splashes  of  gray  in  his  blond  hair,  at  the 
temples,  that  seem  oddly  out  of  place  in  one  so  young — 
one  who,  in  his  athletic  vigor  and  buoyant  health,  ap- 
pears to  lack  at  least  one  year  of  thirty.  They  seem 
also  to  tell  the  story  of  some  great  sorrow  repressed 
in  solitude,  an  act  of  will  which  the  strength  of  jaw 
and  firmness  of  lip  show  to  be  within  his  capabilities. 
Besides,  there  is  an  air  of  melancholy  about  him  that 

183 


Martin    Brook 

is  seen  only  in  those  who  bear  the  burden  of  an  in- 
flexible purpose  for  the  good  of  others. 

The  room  in  which  he  stands  is  small  and  poorly 
furnished,  dwarfed  by  the  vastness  of  the  view  without. 
It  is  an  upper  room.  He  can  touch  the  ceiling  where 
the  roof  comes  slanting  down  on  either  hand.  A  small 
bed,  with  a  blue  and  white  cotton  spread ;  a  wash-stand, 
writh  an  earthen  pitcher  and  bowl;  a  rocking-chair, 
that  inanely  holds  out  its  arms  to  a  guest  who  never 
comes ;  and  a  small  hair  trunk,  that  is  studded  with 
brass-headed  nails,  and  "M.  B."  marked  with  them 
on  the  curved  lid,  fill  more  than  half  the  space.  A  set 
of  four  home-made  shelves  of  unpainted  pine,  strung 
one  below  the  other  on  a  stout  cord  run  through  holes 
in  the  ends  of  the  boards,  is  suspended  from  hooks  in 
the  left-hand  wall  opposite  the  bed.  On  these  shelves 
are  a  few  books,  the  working  tools  of  an  itinerant  Meth- 
odist preacher.  From  a  peg  above  the  trunk  in  the 
corner  near  the  window,  and  across  from  the  head  of 
the  bed,  hang  a  pair  of  saddle-bags.  There  are  a 
few  clothes  on  a  row  of  hooks  b}^  the  door — the  tent- 
shaped  room  having  entrance  from  the  end  opposite 
the  window.  The  lead -colored  wood -work  is  loosely 
jointed.  The  door  is  fastened  by  a  thumb-latch  that 
clicks  when  it  is  touched,  and  the  small  sash  of  the 
window  is  propped  up  by  a  stick.  On  the  floor  is  a 
rag  carpet.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  is  a  plain  deal 
table,  neatly  covered  with  a  sheet  of  white  newspaper. 
A  wooden  arm-chair  stands  in  front  of  the  table,  half 
turned  about.  Upon  the  table  are  a  round  wooden 
inkstand,  with  quill  pens  stuck  in  holes  in  the  top; 
a  perforated  box  of  sand  to  dry  the  ink  on  a  written 
page;  a  candlestick,  with  tallowT  candle,  iron  snuff ers; 
tinder-box  and  flint,  and  a  well-thumbed  Bible.  Sheets 
of  an  unfinished  sermon  are  snugly  piled  at  the  lower 
left,  and  at  the  centre  is  an  open  letter. 

i84 


Martin    Brook 

The  twilight  is  deepening  into  night. 

Martin  watches  the  stars  come  out  in  the  cloudless 
sky.  He  sees  the  north-star,  the  beacon  of  the  escap- 
ing slave.  The  ray  from  that  immutable  signal  of 
Gods  presence  renews  the  fire  on  the  altar  of  his  heart. 
It  is  a  fire  that  has  burned,  now  fiercely,  now  dimly, 
as  circumstance  controlled  it,  throughout  these  years 
since  he  left  Elmhurst,  but  always  with  the  same  un- 
changing purpose — a  light  to  guide  the  honest  fugitive 
to  freedom. 

Martin  turns  from  the  window  and  throws  himself 
into  the  chair  before  the  table.  He  picks  up  the  letter, 
and  holds  it  tenderly.  He  cannot  see  to  read  it;  there 
is  no  need  of  his  doing  so,  for  he  knows  the  con- 
tents. 

And  while  he  sits  in  this  little  room  at  Shelburne, 
resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  his  thoughts,  stirred  to 
action  by  this  letter,  go  step  by  step  along  the  way  from 
Elmhurst  to  the  present  scene.  Seeing  with  memory's 
eyes,  hearing  with  memory's  ears,  he  once  more  lives 
the  past. 

When  Martin  looked  for  the  last  time  at  that  group 
on  the  portico  at  Elmhurst,  and  declared  his  duty  to 
the  oppressed,  he  saw  Judge  Northcote  turn  from  him 
and  walk  tremblingly,  but  with  head  erect,  towards 
the  open  door.  He  saw  Mrs.  Wright  start  forward, 
and  heard  her  exclamation  of  alarm  as  she  put  her  arm 
about  the  judge  and  helped  him  over  the  threshold. 
Martin's  impulse  was  to  rush  to  the  tottering  man; 
but  the  voice  of  Graham  stopped  him. 

"Move  on!"  Graham  ordered. 

Martin  laid  his  hand  on  Enoch's  arm  and  went  with 
him,  bareheaded,  down  the  path,  out  into  the  street, 
amid  a  jeering  crowd,  and  on  to  the  inn. 

He  saw  Eph  Larrabee  trying  to  keep  back  the  crowd 

185 


Martin    Brook 

that  was  pressing  on  every  side.  He  saw  the  frightened 
face  of  Mary  Whittaker  at  her  gate. 

He  saw  the  overseer  thrust  the  negro  up  and  fling 
him  down,  with  a  rattling  of  chains,  on  the  bottom  of 
the  cart.  He  heard  Enoch's  words,  "  Good-bye,  Marse 
Martin." 

He  stood  in  the  road  and  watched  the  jolting  cart 
until  it  disappeared  behind  a  jutting  ledge. 

These  incidents  were  like  the  unreality  of  a  dream; 
but  as  he  caught  the  true  significance  of  the  noise  about 
him — the  shrill  voices  of  men  in  hot  discussion — and  saw 
the  face  of  Sidne}^  Graham  before  him  on  the  porch, 
his  mind  grew  clearer.  He  felt  the  need  of  solitude; 
a  place  where  he  could  think  calmly  and  quiet  the  tumult 
in  his  heart,  away  from  the  curious  and  unsympathetic 
crowd. 

He  pushed  by  Graham  without  a  word,  entered  the 
hotel,  and  locked  himself  in  a  room. 

A  murmur  of  voices  still  reached  his  ears,  but  he  did 
not  heed  it ;  nor  the  rapping  at  his  door  and  the  calling 
of  Larrabee  to  him  from  outside. 

Overwhelmed  with  a  sense  of  irreparable  loss,  in  the 
reaction  from  the  terrible  excitement  of  the  past  hour, 
there  surged  over  him  a  feeling  of  utter  loneliness. 
There  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could  turn — no  one  on 
whom  he  could  lean.  He  realized  now  how  dependent 
he  had  grown  on  the  sustaining  counsel  of  the  judge. 
For  the  first  time  since  that  day  of  his  boyish  dash  for 
liberty  he  was  alone. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  him  a  thought  of  Helen. 
He  was  not  alone.  Her  love  was  now  the  sustaining 
force;  and  with  this  thought  he  realized  emancipation 
from  the  dominance  of  Judge  Northcote's  mind  —  an 
instant  growth  to  the  mental  stature  of  a  man. 

And  yet  there  seemed  to  be  in  this  assertion  of  him- 
self an  act  of  disloj^alty,  of  ingratitude  to   the  man 

1 86 


Martin    Brook 

who  had  saved  him  from  bondage  and  shaped  his 
character.     The  agony  of  a  rebirth  tormented  him. 

At  first  he  could  perceive  only  the  objective  phase 
of  what  he  had  done ;  but  as  his  mind  struggled  on,  the 
subjective  motive  and  result  appeared  to  him. 

Over  and  over  again  he  reviewed  the  scene  with  the 
judge.  Why  had  he  done  this?  Why  had  he  given 
up  everything  in  life?  Not  for  love  of  the  individual 
Enoch.  No;  if  love  for  the  individual  had  controlled 
him,  there  were  the  judge,  for  whom  he  had  profound 
reverence,  and  little  mother.  Dear  little  mother!  That 
one  influence  that  had  caused  him  to  waver  in  his  pur- 
pose. Her  plea  to  him  had  sounded  the  very  key-note 
of  love. 

No.  There  was  something  stronger  than  a  personal 
love :  duty  to  a  principle. 

Judge  Northcote,  who  had  approved  of  his  fight  with 
the  butcher's  boy — who  had  not  censured  him  for  throw- 
ing Graham  into  the  river — who  had  saved  the  ragged, 
friendless  Martin  Brook  from  a  tyrant,  and  had  taken 
Enoch  himself  into  the  household  and  given  him  con- 
siderate treatment  as  a  human  being  —  Judge  North- 
cote, the  idol  of  his  heart,  had  denounced  him  and 
cast  him  off  for  acting  with  precisely  the  same  motive 
towards  Enoch. 

And  Judge  Northcote  had  done  this  because  of  the 
law — a  law  that  created  a  distinction  between  a  white 
man  and  a  black  man ;  because  of  his  reverence  for  the 
theory  of  the  law's  supremacy,  regardless  of  right  and 
justice. 

Martin  paced  the  room  with  hands  clinched  behind 
him. 

"  Judge  Northcote,  the  man  I  have  revered,  is  wrong," 
he  said,  aloud.  "  I  have  never  questioned  the  Tightness 
of  his  opinions  before.  It's  because  I  dared  to  do  so 
that  he  cast  me  off/'     He  paused  abruptly.     "No/' 

187 


Martin    Brook 

he  said.  "That  is  unjust  to  him  and  false  to  myself. 
He  didn't  disown  me  because  I  differed  with  him,  but 
because  I  differed  with  the  law.  But  I  am  right. 
There  is  a  principle  back  of  this  which  is  higher  than 
the  law,  and  1  shall  devote  my  life  to  that  great  cause 
of  learning  how  to  apply  this  principle — the  righting 
of  a  law  that  works  injustice  to  a  people  on  account  of 
their  color ;  that  works  injustice  to  every  one  who  re- 
jects the  letter  of  the  law." 

If  there  were  only  some  one  with  whom  he  could  talk 
— some  one  in  sympathy  with  this  new  conception  of 
law  and  duty,  some  one  who  was  wiser  than  he  and  could 
relieve  him  of  this  awful  pressure  of  introspection. 

"Dr.  Whittaker  !"  he  cried,  going  quickly  to  the 
.bell  and  summoning  a  servant.  "It  is  strange  that  I 
didn't  think  of  him." 

"Go  to  Dr.  Whittaker's  house/'  he  said  to  the  man, 
" and  request  him  to  come  here  to  me  at  once." 

He  paced  the  room  impatiently  until  the  servant  re- 
turned. 

"The  doctor  ain't  home,  sir,"  the  man  reported, 
"  and  he  won't  be  back  before  to-morrow  afternoon." 

Martin  motioned  the  servant  away  as  if  the  man 
were  to  blame,  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  But 
in  a  moment  more  he  was  on  his  feet. 

"I'll  go  to  Mary,"  he  said.  He  looked  about  for  his 
hat. 

A  half -humorous,  half -tragic  recollection  flashed 
through  his  mind;  he  had  left  Elmhurst  without  so 
much  as  a  hat. 

This  fact  started  a  new  train  of  thought. 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  the  knitted 
steel-bead  purse  that  little  mother  had  made  for  him. 
There  was  a  moderate  sum  of  money  in  it. 

A  realization  of  his  material  situation  came  to  him; 
but,  in  the  confidence  of  youth,  this  did  not  appall  him. 

1 88 


Martin    Brook 

There  was  no  sordid  thought  to  turn  him  aside  from  duty. 
Love,  gratitude,  the  loss  of  friendships,  the  going  from 
Elmhurst  under  a  cloud,  these  appealed  to  him  and 
wrung  his  heart,  but  not  the  loss  of  wealth. 

As  he  dropped  his  purse  back  in  his  pocket,  his  hand 
touched  his  fob.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  The  hour 
was  past  midnight.  It  was  too  late  to  go  to  Mary  now ; 
he  must  wait  till  morning. 

Sleepless,  he  sat  the  night  through,  thinking  of  the 
future.  How  could  he  meet  the  change  in  his  relations 
to  the  world?  Wherever  these  musings  led  him,  they 
ended  in  the  one  conviction:  a  vision  of  Helen  looked 
at  him  out  of  the  misty  problem.  His  first  duty  lay 
there — the  broader  way  to  a  life-work  would  be  opened 
to  him,  somehow  and  by  some  means.  His  object  in 
life  had  at  last  been  denned;  he  needed  only  to  figure 
out  its  proportions.  But  his  first  step  must  be  towards 
Helen. 

As  soon  as  it  was  daylight  of  the  tardy  autumn  day, 
he  sent  a  message  to  Mrs.  Wright.  He  wrote  a  dozen 
notes  and  tore  them  up  before  he  was  suited  with  the 
one  sent.  Some  were  blotted  with  tears;  some  were 
too  formal ;  but  he  felt  that  he  could  not  go  to  Elmhurst 
without  permission.  Yet  there  was  need  of  his  per- 
sonal belongings.  He  could  not  go  away  without 
them. 

He  wrote  of  this  necessity,  but  he  ended  with  the  cry 
of  his  heart — his  love  for  her,  his  grief  at  parting,  his 
appeal  for  one  more  word  of  good-bye.  He  told  her  of 
his  plans.  He  said  that  he  should  go  to  Albany— and 
Helen — that  very  morning. 

His  messenger  came  back  without  a  reply ;  but,  closely 
following  him,  Eph  Larrabee  appeared,  with  the  little 
hair  trunk,  a  hat,  a  small  packet,  and  a  note  in  Mrs. 
Wright's  delicate  handwriting.  Martin  tore  open  the 
message.     It  ran : 

189 


Martin    Brook 

"My  DEAR  MARTIN, — The  judge  forbids  me  to  hold  com- 
munication with  you,  and  tells  me  to  send  your  clothing  to  the  inn, 
by  Larrabee.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  disobey  my  brother, 
and  send  you  this  note  to  assure  you  of  my  love  and  sympathy. 
It  is  wiser  not  to  call  at  Elmhurst,  since  the  judge  is  not  well  and 
you  would  be  denied  the  privilege  of  seeing  him.  I  send  the  things 
I  know  you  will  need,  and  also  a  small  parcel,  which  is  to  remain 
unopened,  my  dear  Martin,  until  you  are  settled  in  your  new  home, 
and  wish  to  have  one  more  reminder  of  the  tender  love  of 
"  Your  sorrowing  but  affectionate 

"Little  Mother." 

Martin  went  out  from  the  inn  and  walked  slowly  up 
the  street,  the  tears  blinding  his  eyes. 

Marjr  saw  him  and  came  to  meet  him  at  the  gate. 

"Martin!"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his.  "  You  won't  refuse  to  say 
good-bye/'  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  Refuse  ? ' '     She  led  him  into  the  house. 

"  Haven't  you  heard  of  my  being  turned  out  of  house 
and  home?" 

"  Only  the  rumors,  Martin.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Oh, 
this  has  been  a  terrible  night!" 

"I  was  coming  to  see  you  last  night,  but  it  was  too 
late,"  he  said,  and  told  her  of  the  scene  at  Elmhurst. 
"I  am  right,  Mary.  I  am  right,"  he  added.  "It  isn't 
stubbornness  or  ingratitude ;  it  is  the  right  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  were  right  in  trying  to  help 
Enoch,  and  I  believe  Judge  Northcote  will  admit  this; 
but  don't  go  away  to-day.     Wait  until  father  comes — " 

"You  don't  know  Judge  Northcote,  and  if  he  were 
to  forgive  the  personal  offence  and  I  were  to  go  back 
now,  it  would  never  be  the  same  place.  I  should  have 
to  ask  him  many  questions  that  he  would  dislike  to  hear. 
No,  I  cannot  recede  from  my  position.  There  is  a 
mighty  truth  involved  in  this  action." 

"  But  where  can  you  go?" 

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Martin    Brook 

He  hesitated  an  instant. 

"  1  shall  go  to— to  Albany,  first,  and  take  up  the  law." 

"  Albany  ?"  she  said,  turning  her  face  from  him. 

"  Yes/'  he  said.  "  I  must  go,  Mary.  I  must  see  Helen 
at  once,  and  tell  her  about  this  change  in  my  prospects. 
She  will  help  me — make  me  stronger — with  her  love/' 

Mary  did  not  reply.     He  looked  at  her,  half  offended. 

The  sound  of  the  stage  was  heard.  Martin  started 
up. 

"  Good-bye,  Mary.  There  is  one  thing  I  can  say :  I 
am  glad  you  are  here  to  comfort  little  mother." 

"Good-bye,  Martin,"  she  said.     They  shook  hands. 

Martin  hurried  to  the  inn.  Eph  Larrabee  had  al- 
ready put  his  trunk  in  the  big  boot  of  the  stage. 

"Well,  I  swan!"  said  Eph.  "I  don't  edzackly  git 
the  meanin'  o'  this,  but  I  guess  the  judge  11  find  out 
some  day  you're  right." 

"  I  hope  so,"  Martin  said. 

He  looked  back  as  the  stage  started  away — back  over 
the  heads  of  the  loungers  who  had  no  friendly  word  for 
him— back  through  the  golden-tinted  autumn  leaves, 
and  saw  Mary  standing  by  her  gate,  her  hand  uplifted, 
waving  him  good-bye. 

But  during  the  long  ride  that  followed,  Mary  was  lost 
to  mind  in  the  ever-present  vision  of  Helen.  E[e  pre- 
pared his  mind  for  the  meeting  that  was  so  near;  ar- 
ranged his  thoughts  in  sequence,  that  he  might  be  ready 
to  give  her  an  unbiased  statement  of  the  events  of  yes- 
terday and  tell  her  of  his  plans. 

" Dear  Helen,"  he  mused;  "I  can  almost  see  the  look 
of  approval  in  your  eyes  and  feel  the  pressure  of  your 
hand  on  mine." 

Once  more  he  found  himself  in  the  parlor  of  the  Staf- 
ford mansion,  but  now  instead  of  hearing  Helen's  voice 
he  was  listening  to  the  butler's  formal  excuses  from 
Mrs.  Stafford,  who  was  too  ill  to  receive  him,  and  to 

191 


Martin    Brook 

the  announcement  that  Colonel  Stafford  was  not  in  the 
city. 

"  Miss  Stafford?"  Martin  said,  with  a  feeling  of  sudden 
dread. 

"Miss  Stafford  is  in  New  York,  sir." 

"New  York?"  Martin  repeated,  vaguely.  He  walked 
slowly  to  the  door,  but  paused,  a  new  thought  occurring 
to  him.  "Please  convey  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Stafford, 
and  ask  her  if  she  will  favor  Mr.  Brook  with  Miss  Staf- 
ford's New  York  address." 

He  did  not  return  to  the  parlor,  but  waited  in  the 
hall-way  for  the  reply.  He  mechanically  took  the  slip 
of  paper  on  which  the  address  was  written,  and  went 
away,  half  stunned,  without  a  word  of  thanks  to  the 
servant. 

The  possibility  of  Helen's  absence — of  a  failure  to 
see  her  and  pour  out  his  soul  to  her — had  never  appeared 
to  his  mind. 

The  reality  was  so  different  from  the  expectancy  that 
it  dazed  him  for  the  moment;  but  as  he  walked  along 
to  his  hotel  the  unreasonableness  of  his  emotions  be- 
came apparent  to  him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  she  doesn't  know  of  this  matter. 
I'm  glad  I  thought  of  that  address.  I  must  write  her. 
That^  the  only  way  left  for  me.  But  I  wish  it  were 
otherwise." 

Impelled  by  the  force  of  his  love  for  her,  he  wrote  at 
once,  giving  a  clear  account  of  the  change  in  his  pros- 
pects. As  he  followed  the  logic  of  his  mental  action,  in 
putting  his  ideas  on  paper,  he  grew  firmer  in  the  convic- 
tion that  there  was  but  one  course  for  him  to  pursue. 
He  must  take  up  the  legal  profession.  That  was  a 
plain  deduction.  His  studies  with  the  judge  were,  after 
all,  destined  to  become  the  foundation  of  the  new  work, 
which  the  judge  himself  had  so  bitterly  condemned. 
There  was  a  feeling  of  retributive  justice  in  this  fact. 

192 


Martin    Brook 

He  believed  that  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  find- 
ing just  the  right  place  in  some  lawyer's  office,  where 
he  could  complete  those  studies  and  gain  admission  to 
the  bar  When  once  established,  he  would  give  his  best 
energies  of  mind  and  body  to  this  problem  of  human 
liberty;  and  as  a  lawyer  discover  and  attempt  to  rectify 
the  injustice  of  the  law. 

All  this  he  wrote  to  Helen,  and  in  the  interval  before 
her  helpful  response  could  be  looked  for  he  would  occupy 
his  time  in  securing  the  position  he  desired.  He  started 
out,  brave  in  the  consciousness  of  his  own  integrity  of 

purpose. 

The  disillusioning  of  his  mind;  the  breaking  down 
of  his  confidence  in  himself;  the  learning  of  that  lesson 
which  so  many  men  have  been  forced  to  learn— the 
indifference  of  the  busy  world  to  the  needs  of  aspiring 
youth  — now  came  to  him.  These  unlooked-for  ex- 
periences came,  too,  with  double  force,  because  of  his 
belief  that  it  was  necessary  to  say  to  Helen  that  his 
plans  were  perfected,  and  that  he  had  become  established. 
But  day  after  day,  as  he  turned  from  the  coldness  or  the 
polite  unconcern  of  the  men  he  applied  to,  the  fact  of 
his  helplessness  enveloped  him  like  an  enervating  mist. 

His  money  was  already  melted  away  to  the  merest 
pence.  He  saw  that  he  must  begin  to  earn  something, 
and  that  he  must  take  less  expensive  lodgings.  The 
latter  he  discovered  in  a  small  tavern  down  by  the  river, 
which  fitted  his  purse,  if  not  his  tastes ;  and  he  resolved, 
as  a  temporary  relief,  to  go  to  work  in  some  printing- 
office,  with  a  view  to  ultimately  doing  editorial  writing 
on  the  one  great  theme.  He  recalled,  as  a  cheering 
memory,  how  the  judge  had  told  him  at  the  start  that 
the  printer's  trade  would  always  afford  him  a  living. 

But  the  proof  of  this  was  not  apparent  as  he  tramped 
the  streets,  only  to   find   that  in  the    printing-offices, 
as  in  the  lawyers'  offices,  there  was  scant  interest  in 
N  193 


Martin    Brook 

the  unemployed,  and  that  editorial  work  was  entirely 
beyond  his  reach. 

Night  after  night  he  returned  to  the  tavern,  tired 
and  almost  hopeless;  almost,  not  wholly  so.  For, 
in  the  constant  trust  reposed  in  Helen,  he  was  buoyed 
up  by  the  hope  that  her  message  would  surely  come. 
Still  the  days  passed  without  reply  from  her. 

He  had  written  to  Mary,  also,  explaining  as  much 
of  the  delay  in  securing  a  permanent  position  as  his 
pride  would  permit.  An  answer  came  from  her  im- 
mediately; a  message  of  cheer  and  encouragement, 
and  yet  one  that  might  have  proved  disheartening,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  sincerity  of  his  own  faith.  In  her 
letter  she  told  him  of  an  interview  her  father  had  with 
the  judge.  "Mr.  Northcote,"  she  wrote,  "seems  very 
much  altered  in  his  manner.  He  was  discourteous  to 
father.  I  think  his  health  is  affected  by  the  loss  of  you. 
Mrs.  Wright,  whom  I  saw  yesterday,  sent  her  love  to 
you.  It  is  evident  that  you  were  right  in  your  opinion 
of  the  judge,  as  well  as  in  the  great  principle  you  have 
taken  up." 

Martin  was  not  surprised  or  angered  by  this  con- 
firmation of  his  opinions.  Instead  of  this,  the  letter 
reawakened  the  interest  he  felt  in  the  cause  of  liberty — 
an  interest  forced  for  the  present  somewhat  into  abey- 
ance, because  of  the  demands  of  personal  needs.  In 
the  search  for  daily  bread  he  was  compelled  to  neglect 
consideration  of  the  vaster  motive  of  his  outgoing — the 
duty  of  helping  the  helpless. 

Indeed,  the  problem  of  living  was  now  become  so 
serious  that,  as  a  man  in  actual  need,  the  idea  of  his 
being  a  helper  to  others  appealed  to  him  in  grotesque 
gravity. 

At  this  moment,  when  his  purse  was  empty,  and  he 
was  beginning  to  suffer  the  annoyance  of  feeling  the 
lack  of  Enoch's  care  of  his  clothes ;  when  he  was  lapsing 

194 


Martin    Brook 

into  a  state  of  shabby  gentility  that  was  harder  to  bear 
than  hunger;  when  he  fully  realized  that  study  of  the 
law  was  impracticable,  and  that  even  his  trade  was  not 
available  for  more  than  transient  work,  he  happened 
upon  the  little  packet  sent  him  by  Mrs.  Wright.  He 
had  put  it  away  in  his  trunk,  to  be  opened  when  he  was 
"  settled  in  his  new  home/'  as  she  had  requested. 

To-night,  as  he  reluctantly  admitted  that  he  was 
homesick,  and  his  mind  was  full  of  the  cruelty  of  the 
world,  he  took  up  the  parcel  and  sat  holding  it  for  a 
long  time  in  his  hand.  There  were  no  external  signs 
on  the  package  to  indicate  its  contents.  The  impres- 
sion that  perhaps  it  might  contain  a  letter  from  the  dear 
little  mother  grew  stronger  and  stronger. 

The  desire  to  hear  from  her  overcame  his  scruples 
about  her  wish.     He  broke  the  seal. 

Inside  a  little  box  lay  a  purse  with  ten  gold  eagles. 

Martin  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands  upon  the  table 
before  him  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Oh,  little  mother,  little  mother !"  he  moaned.  "  You 
knew  better  than  I  what  this  going  out  in  the  world 
meant .     Charity !     Charity !     And  from  you ! ' ' 

He  rose  and  walked  the  floor,  trembling  in  an  emotion 
of  resentment.  "Is  there  a  personal  God?"  he  cried. 
"  A  God  who  can  see  the  misery  of  this  world  and  not 
destroy  it?" 

His  heart  yearned  with  love  for  little  mother,  but 
his  pride  asserted  itself. 

He  put  the  purse  back  in  the  box  and  locked  it  in  his 
trunk. 

"  I  can't  touch  that.    No,  Til  work  on  the  wharf  first." 

The  stress  of  his  feeling  overpowered  him.  He  picked 
up  his  hat  and  passed  down  the  uncarpeted  stairs  to 
the  hall  door.  The  narrow  room  stifled  him  —  the 
outer  air  alone  could  give  him  breath.  The  habit  of 
freedom  was  strong  upon  him. 

195 


Martin    Brook 

Life  seemed  darker  than  the  night,  as  he  stepped  into 
the  street.  Shadows  moved  across  the  plane  of  vision. 
The  shadow  of  Helen,  in  her  silence,  fell  on  him  like  a 
destroying  power.     He  began  to  doubt  even  Helen. 

He  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  e3Tes  and  dropped 
his  head  forward,  as  he  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  objects  about  him.  His  only 
desire  was  to  be  in  action  and  alone.  He  started 
vigorously  forward,  and  ran  into  the  arms  of  Elisha 
Morris. 

"My  dear  young  friend!"  Morris  exclaimed,  holding 
him  back  and  recognizing  him.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
How  are  the  good  folks  in  Sandy  Hill?"  He  pushed 
Martin  before  him  into  the  public  room. 

"I  haven't  seen  them  for  some  time,"  Martin  said, 
tr3Ting  to  evade  him.  Morris's  assertive  way  was  al- 
ways annoying  to  him,  but  now  the  preacher  seemed 
to  be  intruding  upon  his  private  misery. 

"What?"  Morris  insisted.  "1  hope  there  isn't  any 
trouble."  His  keen  eye  seemed  to  bore  into  Martin's 
secret  thoughts.  "  I  hope  you  haven't  known  sorrow — 
haven't  lost  faith — haven't  backslidden?" 

"  Pretty  nearly,"  Martin  said. 

"  Come  up  to  my  room  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  Morris 
urged. 

Martin  was  carried  along  despite  his  will.  He  not 
only  went  to  the  preacher's  room,  but,  under  the  shrewd 
questioning  of  this  older  man,  he  related  his  experiences 
— all  but  his  love  for  Helen  and  the  bitterness  of  his  dis- 
appointment at  not  seeing  or  hearing  from  her.  He 
was  moved  to  a  confidence  that  he  all  the  while  resented. 
AVhen  he  had  concluded,  Mr.  Morris  rose  and  towered 
above  him. 

"My  dear  young  brother,"  he  declared,  "this  is 
plain  to  me  —  plain  as  a  pike -staff.  You  have  been 
saved  as  a  brand  from  the  burning.     You  have  been 

196 


Martin    Brook 

plucked  from  the  altar  of  Baal  to  become  a  torch  in 
the  service  of  the  true  God." 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  Martin  asked. 

"Mean?"  cried  the  preacher.  "I  mean  that  you 
shall  not  try  the  law,  but  that  you  shall  join  our  min- 
istry." 

"Impossible,"  said  Martin.  "I've  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing.  Besides,  1  haven't  the  means  for 
study." 

"Nothing  is  impossible  to  God,"  Morris  asserted. 
"  We  need  action  and  piety  in  the  vineyard,  not  scholar- 
ship. But  you  know  more  about  theology  now  than 
I  did  when  1  entered  the  church.  You  are  a  natural 
speaker.  You  must  come  with  me.  I'm  going  on  my 
circuit,  and  you  can  get  a  horse  somewhere  and  ride 
with  me.  I'll  attend  to  your  case,  at  Conference,  when 
the  proper  time  comes."  He  stooped  over  Martin. 
"Is  there  anything  to  prevent?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 
"  You  haven't  been  getting  into  any  scrape,  have  you?" 

He  waited  for  Martin  to  speak.  The  minutes  dragged 
slowly  on. 

"No,"  Martin  said,  at  last,  "there  is  nothing  in  the 
way  except  my  own  feeling ;  but  I  cannot  give  you  an 
answer  now.     I  must  think  this  matter  over  seriously." 

"You  will  remain  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Take  your  own  time,  my  young  friend,"  Morris 
said,  blandly.  "I  shall  return  to  this  house,  God  per- 
mitting, two  weeks  from  to-day.  I  am  only  here  to 
meet  a  brother  preacher  and  go  with  him  on  the  circuit. 
Good-bye  for  the  present." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Martin,  following  Morris  down 
stairs  and  resuming  his  walk.  There  was  need  of  free 
air,  surely,  with  this  new  suggestion  sounding  in  his 
ears. 

"The  ministry?"  he   mused,  as  he  went  along  the 

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Martin    Brook 

dark  street.  "The  Methodist  ministry.  That  is  ut- 
terly impossible/'  The  strange  coincidence  of  his 
meeting  with  Morris  occurred  to  him.  Here  that  man 
had  barred  his  wa\T  towards  the  outer  way  for  a  second 
time — once,  as  he  was  leaving  the  church  in  Sandy 
Hill,  disgusted  with  a  Methodist  revival;  and  now,  as 
he  was  leaving  his  room,  disgusted  with  the  world. 

Was  this  a  leading  by  the  Invisible  Power?  Martin 
went  over  the  incidents  of  his  conversion.  Morris  had 
guided  him  then — was  he  guiding  him  to-night? 

Martin  questioned  this.  He  had  never  engaged  in 
active  work  in  the  Methodist  Church,  although  he  had 
become  a  member.  Perhaps  his  interest  in  Helen  just 
at  that  time  in  Sandy  Hill  had  diverted  h;s  thoughts 
into  a  more  personal  channel.  At  all  events,  the  pros- 
pect opened  up  by  Morris  was  foreign  to  his  conception 
of  a  career. 

"No,"  he  said,  aloud.  "I  reject  that  idea.  My  work 
calls  for  the  law.  I  can't  limit  myself.  1  believe  in 
Methodism — all  but  the  simplicity  of  dress  and  habits — 
and  in  the  personality  of  God. "  He  stood  still.  "  Yes, 
he  said  firmly,  "in  the  personality  of  God.  For  there 
is  a  guidance.  I  am  committed  to  a  work  through 
divine  guidance ;  but  that  very  work  makes  it  impossible 
for  me  to  become  a  preacher.     I  must  be  a  lawyer." 

But  while  he  said  this  he  perceived  that  the  oppor- 
tunity to  enter  the  legal  profession  was  denied  him. 
There  was  the  rub.  And  behind  the  multitude  of  rea- 
sons for  and  against  the  new  idea  loomed  the  problem 
of  his  duty. 

He  saw  the  shackled  hands  of  Enoch  held  up  in  mute 
appeal. 

Still  there  was  some  one  besides  himself  to  be  con- 
sidered. Helen's  views  might  differ  from  his ;  to  Helen, 
therefore,  he  must  submit  the  case. 

He  returned  with  haste  to  the  tavern.     Again  he 

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Martin    Brook 

wrote  to  her,  and  this  letter  was,  as  before,  an  argument 
and  a  plea.  On  the  assumption  that  she  had  failed 
to  get  his  former  letter,  he  briefly  reviewed  the  time, 
from  the  moment  of  his  differences  with  the  judge, 
and,  in  the  light  of  the  unexpected,  he  wrote  his  own 
conclusion.  The  way  seemed  to  open  before  him. 
He  declared  that  the  ministry  teas  the  appointed 
field. 

The  formulating  of  the  case  acted  on  his  mind,  trained 
as  it  was  by  the  judge  to  a  judicial  system  of  reasoning, 
with  convincing  effect.  The  objective  side  of  the  lead- 
ing became  clearer,  while  there  appeared  suddenly 
the  more  subtle  doubt  of  his  spiritual  fitness.  This 
was  a  question  he  must  struggle  with  alone,  in  prayer- 
ful searchings  of  the  heart.  His  religious  instinct 
was  quickened  in  the  conscientious  consideration  of 
his  reverence  for  the  holy  office. 

A  material  view  seldom  troubled  him,  and  now  that 
phase  was  entirely  ignored.  He  argued  that,  since 
all  other  paths  seemed  closed  and  this  one  opened  by 
no  volition  of  his  own,  the  means  would  be  provided 
by  the  Supreme  Power  if  the  call  was  from  God. 

In  the  days  that  now  ensued,  he  reached  an  affirma- 
tive state  of  mind,  and  was  prepared  to  debate  the  finer 
issues  with  Morris  as  soon  as  that  man  and  moment 
should  arrive.  He  had  completely  satisfied  himself 
on  the  question  of  the  integrity  of  his  motive,  that  was 
now  grown  firm  in  the  expectation  of  Helen's  sanction 
of  his  course.  She  stood  in  the  relation  of  the  outer 
world's  opinion,  no  less  than  in  the  closer  relation  of  a 
personal  love.  If  she  approved — as  she  surely  would — 
then  he  could  feel  that  his  entrance  upon  the  ministry 
was  right  to  her  as  his  wife.  The  two  remaining  ques- 
tions were  for  Morris  to  answer :  The  field,  as  an  arena 
for  Martin  in  his  avowed  character  of  emancipator; 
and   the   ministry,   as   a  spiritual   profession.     If   the 

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Martin    Brook 

Methodist  pulpit  was  open  to  him  on  these  terms  of 
freedom  and  fitness,  he  was  ready  to  enter  it. 

The  fortnight  passed.  On  the  day  when  Morris  was 
expected  to  arrive,  the  long-looked-for  letter  came  from 
Helen.     Happy  omen! 

Martin  took  the  letter  from  the  post-office  with  a  thrill 
of  joy.  He  could  not  profane  it  with  a  hasty  glance, 
but  carried  it  to  the  privacy  of  his  room,  that  no  vulgar 
eye  might  witness  his  emotions  on  reading  it. 

"Dear  Helen!''  he  said,  as  he  sat  for  a  moment  be- 
fore breaking  the  seal.  "  Forgive  me  for  doubting 
you!" 

He  touched  the  precious  message  reverently  to  his 
lips.  The  perfume  of  roses  filled  the  air  with  the  fra- 
grance of  her  presence.  He  carefully  opened  the  letter 
and  read : 

"MY  DEAR  Mr.  BROOK.— Both  of  your  letters  from  Albany 
have  reached  me  here.  I  have  also  had  a  long  letter  from  my  aunt 
in  Sandy  Hill,  telling  me  of  the  excitement  caused  by  the  negro 
Enoch.  From  that,  and  your  own  graphic  picture  of  the  scene, 
I  can  understand  that  this  shocking  incident  must  have  distressed 
you  all  very  much. 

"You  ask  me  to  write  frankly  on  the  subject  of  your  professional 
plans ;  but  really  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say.  Your  splendid 
abilities  as  a  speaker,  reader,  and  writer,  qualities  which  Judge 
Northcote  often  spoke  of  to  me  in  the  highest  praise,  are  certainly 
in  your  favor.  I  believe,  too,  that  our  Church  is  in  need  of  just 
such  talents  as  you  possess.  You  know  that  dear  Uncle  Rufus, 
with  all  his  goodness,  is  quite  prosy  in  his  sermons.  The  Meth- 
odist Church,  of  which  I  have  only  a  slight  knowledge,  seems  to 
me  to  be  composed  of  persons  not  your  equals  in  social  station ; 
and  I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean  b}7  'agonizing'  over  the 
selection  of  a  profession.  I  have  too  high  an  opinion  of  3Tour  judg- 
ment to  believe  that  you  will  be  deceived  through  your  emotions. 
Is  it  not  wiser  to  leave  what  may  be  termed  the  ecstasy  of  religious 
excitement  to  the  poor,  who  have  so  few  forms  of  diversion? 

"My  father  is  preparing  to  take  my  mother  abroad,  in  the  hope 
of  restoring  her  to  health,  and  I  shall  go  with  them.  Because  of 
this,  and  also  on  account  of  your  own  professional  uncertainty, 

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Martin    Brook. 

would  not  it  be  well  for  us  to  consider  our  future  relations  only  in 
he   fglt  o   a,,  enduring  friendship?     I  think  so;  and  m  saymg 
t  llsh  you  to  render  me  as  your  -gg*"-^. 

He  read  the  letter  over  and  over  again,  until  each 
word  was  burned  into  his  memory. 

He  was  still  sitting  there,  too  crushed  and  benumbed 
to  heed  a  sound  with  mortal  ears,  when  Morris  opened 
his  door  and  came  in,  full  of  life  and  energy. 

"  Why  my  dear  young  friend,"  Morris  said,  in  a  tone 
that  made  each  nerve  in  Martin's  body  qmver  I« 
been  pounding  at  your  door  two  minutes.  What  s 
the  matter?     Are  you  sick?" 

"No-o,"  Martin  said,  rising.     Morris  saw  the  letter 

in^dandews?"   he   asked.     "I   hope   not.     Not   the 

,U"gH  iStfaom  Sandy  Hill,"  Martin  replied,  trying 
to  regain  composure.  . 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  whatever  it  is.  You  look 
as  if  vou  had  been  plunged  through  deep  waters  God  s 
ways  are  mysteries.  You  know  we  are  oftentimes  led 
to  the  light  by  suffering."  Morris  moved  about  the 
room.  "Perhaps  you're  not  ready  to  speak  of  that 
subject  I  mentioned — " 
"  I  am  ready,"  Martin  said. 

"  Thank  God !  You  convince  me  of  the  genuineness 
of  your  call  to  preach.  My  dear  friend,  a  man  who 
can  come  up  out  of  a  personal  affliction^on  t  tell  me 
you  haven't  had  one,  for  I  see  it  in  your  face-a  man 
who  can  do  that  and  not  question  the  goodness  of  the 
Heavenly  Father  is  a  chosen  son  of  God." 

"Don't!  don't  talk  that  way!"  Martin  cried,  stamp- 
ing his  foot  and  putting  his  hand  up  as  if  to  ward  oil 
the  words.  "There  is  a  question-"  He  went  to  the 
window  and  turned  his  back  on  Morris.        Will  you 

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Martin    Brook 

kindly  leave  me  for  one  hour?  Come  back  in  an  hour, 
and  I  shall  be  myself." 

Morris  went  up  to  Martin,  with  a  gentleness  he  had 
never  shown  before.  "  May  God,  in  His  infinite  wisdom, 
guide  you,  nry  friend/'  he  said,  and  left  the  room,  shut- 
ting the  door  noiselessly  behind  him. 

Martin  stood  motionless  for  a  time,  the  letter  clutched 
in  his  hand. 

The  snapping  of  the  wood  in  the  fireplace,  as  the 
stick  burned  through  and  fell  between  the  andirons, 
aroused  him.  He  turned  and  looked  first  at  the  blazing 
embers  and  then  at  the  letter.  He  drew  a  deep  breath 
that  expanded  the  muscles  of  his  chest  and  lifted  his 
shoulders,  emitting  it  through  his  nostrils  in  a  trembling 
sigh. 

He  walked  firmly  across  the  room  and  held  the  let- 
ter in  the  fire.  The  paper  crinkled  and  fluttered  as  it 
slowly  burned.  The  words  still  showed  on  the  black, 
charred  surface.  He  grasped  the  fragments  in  both 
hands  and  ground  them  to  powder  between  his  palms. 
He  scattered  the  ashes  on  the  coals. 

He  looked  at  his  hands.  They  were  covered  with 
oily,  offensive  stains,  and  he  held  them  from  him.  He 
moved  quickly  across  the  room,  filled  the  earthen  bowl 
with  water,  and  washed  his  hands,  rubbing  them  until 
not  a  trace  of  the  black  stains  remained. 

Then  he  drew  an  arm-chair  before  the  hearth,  and 
sat  down,  his  chin  resting  on  his  breast,  his  hands 
closed  hard  on  the  ends  of  the  chair  arms. 

There  was  nothing  left  oj:  Helen  Stafford  in  his  life — 
nothing  that  the  world  could  see. 

Martin  was  sitting,  to  all  outward  appearances  calm 
and  self-contained,  when  Morris  returned.  He  heard 
the  preacher's  rap  this  time  and  bade  him  enter.  Morris 
eyed  him  sharply. 

"Brother  Morris/' Martin  said,  as  he  handed  him  a 

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Martin    Brook 

chair.  "  I  have  thought  deeply  on  the  subject  we  spoke 
of  when  you  were  here  two  weeks  ago.  There  are  no 
earthly  ties  that  bind  me;  but  am  I  suited  to  the  min- 
istry?" 

"  Well,  I  should  put  it  the  other  way:  is  the  ministry 
suited  to  you?     It's  a  hard  life,  and  poorly  paid—" 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  wealth/'  Martin  interrupted. 
"  You  know  my  history.  I  am  resolved  on  one  course : 
to  go  into  a  profession  in  which  1  can  work  to  undo  a 
great  legal  wrong ;  to  help  the  slave — " 

"My  dear  brother,  is  there  a  greater  slavery  than 
sin?" 

"  Pardon  me,  the  sin  I  shall  aim  at  is  slavery. " 

"  There  are  no  slaves  in  the  North,  but  there  are  plenty 
of  sinners.  Now,  enter  the  Church  and  fight  the  devil 
wherever  you  find  him.  There  won't  be  any  lack  of 
opportunity." 

"  That  is  true,  but  there  is  yet  a  question  to  be  asked, 
since  you  so  readily  dispose  of  the  spiritual  problem. 
You  appear  to  leave  that  to  my  own  conscience — " 

"Certainly  I  do.  I  am  governed  by  what  I  call  the 
'leading.'  You  will  see  that  the  Lord  approves  of 
your  going.  These  doubts  indicate  a  fine  nature. 
But,  my  young  friend,"  and  Morris  laid  a  hand  on 
Martin's  knee  and  looked  into  his  eyes,  "you  are  not 
well — you  are  pale.     What  is  the  cause — " 

"Brother  Morris,  whatever  the  cause  may  be,  it  is 
past,  and  I  still  live.  It  is  my  own  private  sorrow. 
But  this  grief  has  no  more  effect  on  my  decision  than 
on  the  vow  I  made  when  I  left  Elmhurst.  I  shall  not 
go  into  the  ministry  because  of  personal  disappoint- 
ment. My  mind  was  made  up  before  that  trial  came 
to  me." 

"I'm  glad  again,"  Morris  said.  "Everything  con- 
firms my  theory  of  your  call." 

"Not    everything.      There   is   one   point   you  seem 

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Martin    Brook 

wilfully  to  ignore.  I  shall  go,  if  at  all,  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  preaching  freedom.  The  bar  is  my  choice, 
but  if  the  pulpit  is  offered  me  instead,  I  will  accept  it, 
because  it  will  give  me  a  chance  to  help  free  the  negroes. 
Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  not  do  this?" 

"No,"  said  Morris,  thoughtfully,  rubbing  his  chin 
with  his  broad  fingers.  "  No ;  but  you  will  learn  that  a 
young  man's  views  are  liable  to  change." 

"Mine  will  not,"  Martin  replied. 

"Oh,  well,  leave  that  to  time.  Get  a  horse  and  go 
with  me  over  the  circuit.  It  will  be  practice  for  you  till 
Conference  time  next  spring.  Til  introduce  you  as  a 
coming  preacher,  and  will  see  to  it  that  you're  admitted 
on  trial." 

"A  horse?"  Martin  said.     "I  have  no  means — " 

"  I  can  get  you  an  outfit  of  horse  and  saddle-bags  for 
seventy -five  dollars  —  I'll  lend  you  a  Bible,  if  you 
haven't  one." 

The  recollection  of  little  mother's  purse  darted 
through  Martin's  mind.  The  thought  caused  him  to 
catch  his  breath.  Her  gift  was  not  a  charity — it  was 
Providence ! 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  will  go  with  you."  he  said,  offering  Morris  his 
hand. 

Now,  after  five  years,  sitting  here  in  his  study  at 
Shelburne,  with  an  open  letter  still  before  him,  Martin 
asks  himself : 

"Am  I  doing  all  that  can  be  done  to  free  the  slave? 
Have  I  been  true  to  my  promise — true  to  God?" 


Chapter   II 

NIGHT  gently  spreads  its  influence  over  the  scene  as 
Martin  sits  here  in  his  little  room  at  Shelburne,  with 
that  question  still  unanswered.  His  world  seems  so 
small  to  him  because  of  this  desire  to  free  the  slaves. 

The  darkness  beyond  and  about  him  typifies  the 
moral  and  spiritual  condition  of  the  wide  region  through 
which  he  had  ridden  as  a  Methodist  preacher. 

The  introspective  mood  is  still  upon  him.  The 
panorama  of  his  life  moves  rapidly.  There  are  some 
scenes  on  which  he  would  close  his  eyes.  He  cannot 
trust  himself  to  look  on  the  picture  of  the  agony  of  the 
first  weeks,  after  he  had  gone  with  Morris  on  the  circuit, 
riding  the  old  gray  horse  he  had  bought  with  little 
mother's  gold.  He  had  learned,  too,  that  God  would 
not  endure  a  divided  love.  "  Thou  shalt  have  no  other 
Gods  before  Me,"  and  Helen  Stafford  was  once  his  idol. 
He  had  leaned  on  her  in  his  first  hour  of  trouble,  not 
on  God's  hand,  and  he  had  been  taught  to  know  the 
frailty  of  a  human  reed.  But  he  had  risen  above  the 
misery  of  that  trial,  stronger  than  before. 

Stronger,  too,  in  his  determination  to  follow  the  one 
great  object  of  his  new  life — the  emancipation  of  the  slave. 
The  clank  of  Enoch's  fetters  sounded  ever  in  his  ears. 

And  yet  there  seemed  to  be  no  opportunity  to  carry 
out  this  purpose;  for  Morris's  circuit  lay  in  the  region 
of  the  Hudson  Valley,  and  the  preacher's  mind  was 
bent  on  making  converts  to  Methodism,  not  to  the  anti- 
slavery  cause. 

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Martin    Brook 

Whenever  Martin  spoke  to  him,  during  the  early 
months  of  their  intimate  association,  reminding  him 
of  this  motive,  Morris  had  but  one  reply :  "  Don't  be 
impatient.  God  will  lead  you.  Save  the  sinner  nearest 
you." 

"But  I  didn't  enter  this  field  with  that  intention/' 
Martin  had  declared  again  and  again;  and  Morris 
had  gone  on,  smiling  at  his  inexperience.  For  to  the 
preacher's  mind  this  was  but  a  phase  of  the  ordeal 
through  which  a  young  man  must  pass,  in  his  prog- 
ress towards  the  true  ministerial  function.  Plans, 
opinions,  ideals,  must  all  be  merged  into  the  one 
grand  acceptance  of  God's  guidance  to  the  true  faith 
and  understanding  of  Methodism. 

Martin  had  experienced  no  difficulty  in  understand- 
ing the  doctrines  of  the  Church,  nor  in  accepting  them. 
His  knowledge  of  theology  was,  as  Morris  had  affirmed, 
far  in  advance  of  his  needs,  when,  at  Conference  time, 
after  a  winter  of  la3T-service  with  his  preceptor,  he  took 
the  vows  of  a  clerical  probationer. 

But  even  before  the  expiration  of  that  period  of  service 
within  the  Church  he  realized  that  the  Methodist  ministry 
did  not  afford  him  the  opportunity  he  desired,  although 
there  seemed  to  be  no  receding  from  his  new  position. 
As  the  law  offices  and  newspaper  offices  had  been  closed 
to  him,  so  was  the  Church  itself,  as  he  beheld  the  actual 
field.  He  was  hampered  on  every  side  by  the  limita- 
tions of  his  opportunity.  In  the  circuit  to  which  he 
was  first  assigned,  after  entering  the  Church,  the  peo- 
ple were  indifferent,  or  ignorant,  or  positively  vicious. 
He  began  to  comprehend  what  Morris  had  meant  by 
"the  sinner  nearest  to  hand."  There  was  need  of  work 
among  these  people;  and  in  the  earnestness  of  his 
nature  he  engaged  in  this,  with  a  zeal  that  gradually 
and  unconsciousty  drew  him  aside  from  the  main  in- 
tent. 

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Martin    Brook 

Since  beginning  his  round  as  an  independent  circuit- 
rider  he  had  met  Morris  but  once  or  twice.  On  one  of 
these  occasions  Morris  had  said  :  "  Keep  on,  dear 
brother.  You  are  finding  out  for  yourself  that  your 
plans  are  not  always  God's  plans/' 

This  remark  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  Martin's 
mind,  and  he  had  gone  forward  with  a  prayer  for  clearer 
guidance.  Was  his  will  opposed  to  God's?  He  ques- 
tioned his  own  judgment,  and  rested  his  cause  with  God, 
preaching  wherever  he  could  gain  a  hearing — in  school- 
houses,  brick -yards,  private  -  houses  —  anywhere  that 
men  would  listen  to  him. 

But  whenever  he  found  an  ear  into  which  he  could 
pour  the  doctrine  of  human  freedom — a  rare  chance 
among  men  who  were  either  rabidly  pro-slavery  or  else 
so  engrossed  in  their  own  poverty  as  to  be  unapproach- 
able^— he  talked  for  the  slaves. 

Because  of  this  he  became  known  as  "  the  crazy 
preacher,"  "the  fanatic,"  "the  Methodist  fool,"  and 
suffered  in  this  persecution,  as  only  an  honest,  sensitive 
nature  can  suffer  from  a  misunderstanding  of  his  true 
motive. 

Those  were  cruelly  bitter  days  to  him.  The  priva- 
tions of  his  life,  the  exposure,  the  hardships  in  a  thou- 
sand forms,  after  the  luxury  of  Elmhurst,  were  almost 
unendurable. 

And  yet  the  gravest  suffering  came  to  him  in  an  im- 
material form.  He  was  torn  and  ground  between 
the  upper  millstone  of  a  consciousness  that  he  was 
not  carrying  out  his  purpose,  and  the  nether  millstone 
of  his  doubt  of  a  divine  calling  to  the  ministry. 

In  the  logic  of  his  mental  conscience  he  was  a  crusader, 
urged  on  by  the  vision  of  Enoch's  imploring  hands; 
but  in  the  depths  of  his  spiritual  conscience  he  was 
a  minister  of  God.  The  imperiousness  of  his  vow  to 
dutjr  and  the  awful  sacredness  of  his  vow  to  the  minis- 

207 


Martin    Brook 

terial  office  clashed,  with  every  fibre  of  his  being  caught 
between  them. 

From  an  agony  of  soul,  he  used  to  throw  himself 
from  his  horse,  in  the  solitude  of  his  journeyings  along 
the  roads  in  the  wilderness,  and  wrestle  with  the  spirit, 
praying  for  light,  for  promptings,  for  deliverance  from 
a  stubbornness  of  will,  for  a  fuller  consecration  to  God. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  most  terrible  seasons  of 
self-doubt  that  his  duty  as  a  rider  on  the  circuit  took 
him  back  to  Sandy  Hill.  His  circuit  lay  north  of  that 
village  and  he  must  pass  through  it.  This  was  his 
first  visit  there  since  leaving  Elmhurst.  The  people 
he  had  known — the  people  who  once  were  proud  to  shake 
the  hand  of  Northcote's  heir — now  turned  their  backs 
on  him.  The  preacher  in  charge — a  stranger  to  him — 
asked  him,  from  courtesy,  to  conduct  the  service,  that 
one  Sunday,  in  the  church  where  he  had  first  seen 
Morris,  the  church  where  he  had  been  converted.  But 
there  was  only  a  handful  of  people  present.  Not  one 
of  his  old  friends  at  Elmhurst  came  to  hear  him.  Alary 
Whittaker  was  there,  and  the  doctor's  house  sheltered 
him  for  a  night.  It  was  then  that  the  doctor  said: 
"  Be  true  to  yourself,  Martin,  whatever  the  world  says 
or  does." 

It  was  on  this  ride,  also,  that  he  had  chanced  to  pass 
the  spot  where  Jacobs,  his  former  master,  lived  when 
he  ran  away.  The  house  was  gone.  Not  a  trace  of 
it  remained.  But  in  the  old  garden,  amid  the  rank 
weeds  and  thistles,  a  few  hardy,  self-sown  flowers 
were  blooming  in  a  riot  of  color.  He  had  planted  them 
himself,  years  before,  and  they  had  survived  the  wreck 
and  ruin  of  the  place.  He  wondered  if  Jacobs  were  yet 
alive,  and  if  that  whip  was  still  cutting  into  some  poor 
boy's  cheek. 

Again  he  sees  Enoch  in  the  cart — Enoch  in  chains, 
and  with  a  bloody  wound  on  his  head ! 

208 


Martin    Brook 

The  memory  of  a  cruel  blow  on  his  own  cheek  causes 
the  retrospective  mood  to  fall  from  him.  He  is  here — 
in  Shelburne — in  the  present.  There  is  duty — duty — 
duty! 

Martin  paces  his  room.  The  darkness  does  not 
prevent  him ;  he  knows  every  inch  of  space,  every  object 
in  the  place,  and  the  confines  of  the  room  are  like  the  con- 
fines of  his  pastoral  charge — petty,  narrow,  insufficient. 

He,  Martin  Brook,  the  man  who  would  do  worthy 
deeds,  world-embracing  deeds  in  the  interests  of  hu- 
manity, is  cribbed  and  circumscribed  by  the  meagre- 
ness  of  his  field. 

"  The  preaching  of  the  gospel  is  a  holy  work,"  Martin 
exclaims,  "but  what  is  the  gospel?  It  is  the  helping 
of  the  oppressed;  the  teaching  of  men  to  read,  that 
they  may  comprehend  God's  Word ;  the  freeing  of  man- 
kind. This  was  Christ's  injunction ;  and  it  seems  to  be 
the  fate  of  all  those  who  teach  Christ's  loving  message 
to  suffer  persecution  as  the  Saviour  did." 

All  at  once  the  words  of  the  letter  on  his  table  come 
back  to  him. 

He  strikes  a  spark  from  the  flint  into  the  tinder  and 
lights  the  candle.  He  sits  down  at  the  table  to  re- 
read the  letter.  His  eye  catches  first  the  centre  square 
— the  lightest  spot  in  the  folded  sheet — where  the  in- 
scription is  written : 

"Rev'd  Martin  Brook,  Shelburne,  Vt." 

The  sight  of  his  name  causes  him  to  spring  to  his  feet. 

"What  has  been  accomplished  in  these  five  years 
for  the  slave?"  he  said.  "Nothing.  It  seems  im- 
possible to  keep  straight  in  this  path  of  duty.  Here 
1  am,  admitted  to  full  membership  in  the  Conference, 
and  given  a  local  charge— no  longer  a  circuit-rider, 
but  a  minister  with  a  pulpit— and  yet  I  have  done 
nothing  in  this  pulpit  I  aspired  to  from  the  start  tow- 
ards the  fulfilment  of  this  pledge  to  my  soul!" 
O  209 


Martin    Brook 

He  sits  down  and  takes  up  the  letter. 

Beneath  the  space  bearing  his  address,  on  the  space 
that  was  covered  by  the  flap  and  sealed  with  a  red  wafer, 
is  the  signature.  He  looks  at  it,  a  gleam  of  tenderness 
in  his  e}Tes: 

"  Your  respectful  and  affectionate  friend,  Mary  Whit- 
taker." 

He  reads : 


"  Dear  Friend  Martin,— You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I 
am  now  in  Keeseville,  although  jtou  may  have  learned  of  mjT  father's 
death.     In  that  great  sorrow  I  am  sustained  by  a  faith  in  God. 

"You  will  be  pleased  to  know  that  after  your  sermon  in  Sandy 
Hill  I  began  to  realize  the  need  of  an  open  profession  of  religion, 
and  so  was  led  to  unite  with  the  Methodist  Church. 

"  I  am  now  living  with  relatives  here,  having  sold  the  old  home 
in  Sandy  Hill,  and  am  teaching  school.  Dear  father  was  too 
generous  to  accumulate  much  worldly  wealth. 

"  Because  of  my  associations  here,  I  recently  met  a  gentleman 
from  Troy — a  Mr.  Charles  Chichester,  who  said  he  once  saw  you 
in  Sandy  Hill.  I  happened  to  mention  that  I  used  to  live  there, 
and  he  laughed  at  the  way  you  whipped  the  butcher's  bo\\  Mr. 
Chichester  isn't  a  professor  of  religion,  but  he  seems  to  be  a  very 
nice  man.  My  uncle  buys  wool  for  him.  He  remarked  that  he 
had  heard  of  your  good  work  in  the  Church.  It  was  very  pleasant 
to  hear  that  others  like  you  and  appreciate  your  services. 

"I  hope  you  have  a  comfortable  boarding-place.  Are  you  care- 
ful of  your  health?  I  trust  so,  because  you  could  not  be  spared 
from  the  work  you  are  doing.  Are  you  still  giving  thought  to  the 
great  Cause?  You  know  how  much  my  father  was  interested  in 
that  work.  From  what  Mr.  Chichester  said,  I  gathered  that  he  is 
an  anti-slavery  man,  also,  but  in  these  times  the  subject  is  rarely 
spoken  of. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  Mrs.  Wright's  long  illness?  She  is  suffer- 
ing, I  fear,  in  a  way  that  God  alone  can  relieve.  Judge  Northcote 
has  given  up  the  Sentinel  to  others,  and  now  takes  rto  active  part 
in  public  affairs.  He  is  never  seen  on  the  streets.  Mr.  Sidney 
Graham,  who  treated  you  with  such  inhuman  cruelty,  is  in  Europe, 
where,  also,  Miss  Helen  Stafford  is  sojourning.  I  am  informed 
of  their  matrimonial  engagement.  They  are  to  be  married  and 
then  travel  for  some  months. 

210 


Martin    Brook 

"  If,  at  any  time,  you  can  find  leisure  to  write  to  me,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  learn,  from  your  own  hand,  that  you  are  well,  and  happy 
in  your  work." 

Martin  laid  the  letter  down,  and  sat  for  several  min- 
utes with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand. 

"Am  I  doing  some  good  work  in  the  Church?" 
he  mused.  "Mary  entered  the  Church  through  my 
poor  influence?  Is  she  right  in  her  estimate  of  my 
work?  She  is  always  so  clear-minded,  so  just,  so  help- 
ful. Chichester?  Yes,  I  remember  that  boy  very  well. 
That  fight  was  for  a  principle — the  principle.  The 
Cause?  Even  Mary  seems  to  question  my  earnest- 
ness." 

He  had  become  restless.  His  life-long  habit,  when 
disturbed  in  spirits,  to  seek  the  freedom  of  the  outer 
air,  grew  irresistible.  He  blew  out  the  candle,  put 
on  his  hat,  picked  up  a  stout  hickory  walking-stick, 
and,  suddenly  remembering  he  must  make  no  noise, 
quietly  left  his  room. 

The  stairway  on  which  his  door  opened  led  into  a 
dark  space,  half  corridor,  half  bedroom,  occupied  only 
when  there  was  "company/'  and  plunged  abruptly 
into  the  sitting-room  below,  with  a  wall  on  either  side 
and  one  step  into  the  lower  room  projecting  beyond 
the  door. 

Martin  crept  down  this  tunnel  of  a  stairway,  a  hand 
on  either  sidewall,  and  cautiously  lifted  the  latch,  lest 
he  should  disturb  his  landlady;  and  so,  softly  across 
the  sitting-room,  to  the  outside  door.  He  opened  this 
slowly,  and  passed  into  the  night,  gently  closing  the 
door  behind  him. 

"  I  mustn't  disturb  Mrs.  Dalton/'  he  thought.  "  Yes, 
this  is  a  good  boarding-place,  I  can  assure  Mary,  but 
Mrs.  Dalton  thinks  I'm  a  queer  man,  to  go  prowling 
about  at  night.' '  He  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  his 
landlady's  oddities.     "Good  soul/'   his  thoughts  ran 

211 


Martin    Brook 

on,  as  he  swung  out  at  a  rapid  pace,  "  she  is  very  kind 
to  take  me  as  a  boarder,  when  she  is  so  opposed  to  all 
Methodists/' 

He  pushed  on,  beyond  the  sleeping  village,  and  turned 
to  look  back  at  it,  lying  in  absolute  silence. 

"It  is  a  small  place,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  it  seems 
smaller  by  comparison  with  the  great  deeds  done  by 
great  men.  1,  too,  am  trying  to  speak  in  the  name  of 
the  Great  Jehovah ;  but  I  have  neither  the  voice  of  Allen 
nor  the  strength  of  McDonough.  What  can  1  do  here? 
What  am  1  accomplishing  ?" 

An  intruding  recollection  of  Helen  Stafford  and  his 
former  faith  in  her  annoyed  him.  "  So  she  is  to  marry 
Graham,"  he  mused,  but  swept  the  thought  aside,  and 
walked  the  faster.  Her  answer  to  his  letter  was  ashes 
— ashes,  as  his  heart  had  been  for  years  to  all  but  God  s 
love. 

He  left  the  road,  climbed  a  stone  wall,  and  wandered 
into  the  fields,  towards  the  lake,  sinking  down  to  rest 
in  the  solitude. 

Once  or  twice  he  fancied  that  he  could  hear  footsteps, 
as  if  some  one  were  following  him,  stumbling  over  the 
stones.  He  was  about  to  call  out,  when  the  clank  of  a 
cowbell  explained  the  noise  to  his  mind,  and  he  sat 
quietly  watching  the  stars. 

But  the  spirit  of  action  laid  hold  on  him.  He  found 
it  impossible  to  sit  still.  He  rose  and  gazed  into  the 
heavens.  Above  him  bent  the  infinite  glories  of  the 
constellations  in  their  deep  blue  settings.  He  felt 
that  he  was  standing  beneath  the  jewelled  tabernacle  of 
God. 

'"  Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  influence  of  Pleiads,  or 
loose  the  bands  of  Orion?'  "  he  cried  aloud.  "Is  there 
no  broader  field?  If  not,  then  I  will  serve  the  Master 
patiently  in  the  appointed  way." 

He  started  to  retrace  his  steps. 

212 


Martin    Brook 

The  figure  of  a  man  loomed  up  before  him  out  of  the 
darkness. 

Instinctively  he  placed  himself  on  the  defensive, 
clutching  his  heavy  cane  and  raising  it  above  his  head. 

"Who  are  you?  What  do  you  want?  Speak,  or 
I'll  strike!" 

The  man  dropped  to  his  knees,  his  hands  held  out 
imploringly. 

"Marse  Martin!  Marse  Martin!  doan't  you  know 
me?" 

The  stick  fell  from  Martin's  grasp. 

"Enoch!"  he  cried. 


Chapter    III 

"YAS,  sah,  it's  ole  Enoch,  fo'  suah,  Marse  Martin/' 
the  negro  said,  in  a  low  tone,  still  on  his  knees  and 
looking  about  cautiously.  "Wasn't  sartin  'twas  you, 
'fore  you  spoke — den  1  knowed  yo'  voice." 

For  a  moment  Martin  stood  breathless,  doubting  his 
own  senses. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  get  here — where  did  you 
come  from?"  Martin  cried  at  last. 

His  voice  broke  the  uncanny  stillness  of  the  night; 
he  stood  in  silhouette  against  the  starlit  sky. 

"Fo'  Gawd's  sake,  don't  talk  so  loud,  Marse  Martin," 
Enoch  said,  crouching  lower. 

"Why?"  Martin  demanded,  resenting  the  rebuke 
as  in  the  grotesque  uncertainty  of  a  dream  and  trem- 
bling from  an  emotion  Enoch  could  not  understand. 
He  stooped  forward  and  put  both  hands  on  the  man, 
to  assure  himself  of  the  reality  of  the  scene.  "  Enoch ! 
Enoch!  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  this  means  to  me!" 
He  straightened  up,  with  clinched  hands  raised  and 
face  turned  to  the  sky,  breathing  hard  and  fast. 

"Please  set  down,  Marse  Martin,"  Enoch  pleaded, 
crawling  to  him  and  taking  hold  of  his  coat.  "  Some 
one  see  you,  sartin  suah!" 

"Yes,  the  world  shall  see  me,"  Martin  said. 

"Dar  ain't  no  'scurity  nowhar  if  you  lets  'em  see 
you.     Please  set  down,  sah." 

"Security?"  Martin  said,  as  he  dropped  down  on  a 
bowlder,  confused  in  the  flood  of  thoughts. 

214 


•  Martin    Brook 

"  I  was  mighty  suah  you'd  be  glad  to  see  ole  Enoch/' 
the  negro  said,  with  pathetic  earnestness.  Lying  flat 
on  the  grass,  he  reached  up  a  caressing  hand  and  patted 
Martin's  knee. 

"Glad?  Glad  to  see  you?"  Martin  said.  "Yes — 
yes ;  but  I'm  more  than  glad.  I  thank  God  for  sending 
you  here — to  revive  my  purpose." 

The  intensity  of  his  tone  puzzled  Enoch.  "You 
ain't  mad  'cause  I  come,  be  you?" 

Enoch  withdrew  his  hand.  The  motion  — that  of  a 
beaten,  yet  faithful  dog— recalled  Martin  from  the 
introspective  mood.  He  saw  that  he  was  not  under- 
stood, and  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  the  man 
comprehend  him. 

"No,  Enoch,"  he  said,  as  to  a  child.  "But  why- 
how  did  you  get  here?" 

"I  come  'spressly  to  see  you,  Marse  Martin." 

His  voice  attracted  Martin's  attention  because  of  the 
peculiar  tone,  before  his  intellect  grasped  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words.  It  was  not  the  sibilant  note  of  a 
whisper,  nor  the  rumble  of  a  guttural.  It  had  carrying 
power,  but  seemed  to  reach  only  the  ear  it  was  intended 
for— a  quality  of  appeal  that  had  the  force  of  conviction, 
and  yet  was  like  a  signal  among  wild  creatures. 

"  But  how  did  you  know  where  to  find  me?"  Martin 
said,  unconsciously  imitating  the  man's  voice,  once 
more  touching  him  to  be  sure  of  his  presence. 

"  I's  des  pow'ful  glad  you's  glad,  Marse  Martin.  I 
wanted  to  see  you,  sah.  Dat's  what  I  followed  you  fo'. 
I  wanted  to  fin'  you  alone,  Marse  Martin— dat's  hit- 
alone,  all  by  yo'self .  1  was  'fraid.  Dat's  why  I  watched 
you  all  day." 

"  Watched  me  all  day?  Have  you  been  here  all  day, 
without  coming  to  me  at  the  house?" 

"  We  got  heah  las'  night,  sah,  and  didn't  dare  come 
in  de  daytime." 

215 


Martin    Brook 

"'We?'  Who  is  with  you?"  Martin  said,  glancing 
around. 

"Oh,  dey  ain't  no  one  heah,  Marse  Martin.  Dey's 
hidin'  in  de  bresh,  down  yon." 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  Martin  commanded,  im- 
patiently. 

"Yas,  sah,"  Enoch  hastened  to  answer.  "Dar's 
fo'  of  us,  sah,  an'  we's  on  our  way  to  Canadah  dis 
time,  fo'  suah." 

"  How  did  you  find  your  way?" 

"We's  followed  dat,  sah,"  Enoch  pointed  solemnly 
to  the  north  star.  "Dat's  de  eye  of  de  Lo'd,  guidin' 
us  to  freedom!" 

"But  it  doesn't  shine  by  day,  Enoch.  It's  like  my 
own  purpose — it  disappears  at  times." 

"Is  dat  so?"  Enoch  said,  bewildered  by  Martin's 
words  and  manner.  "Well,  you  know,  we  hides  an' 
sleeps  by  day.  We  goes  on  by  night.  We's  ben  mo'n 
fo'  months  on  de  road." 

"Four  months?  How  have  you  lived — how  have 
you  got  food?"  Martin  asked,  incredulously. 

"  De  good  Lo'd,  he  provided.  Co'se  we  had  to  tak' 
what  we  could  fin'." 

"  They  took  you  back  to  slavery — and  }rou  have  again 
escaped?  Tell  me!  Tell  me  all  about  it — your  going, 
your  coming  back — eve^thing!  Did  that  man — that 
overseer,  Griffin — did  he  take  you  back?"  Martin's 
words  trembled  over  each  other. 

"Yas,  sah,"  Enoch  said,  confused  at  the  flood  of 
questions.  "  When  dey  stah'ted  me  off  from  Elmhurst, 
dey  went  down  to  Troy.  Marse  Griffin  —  he's  de  ober_ 
seer — put  me  'boa'd  de  boat  an'  we  went  down  de  Hud- 
son. I  kep'  mah  eyes  open  an'  dar  didn't  nuffin' 
'scape  me.  I  saw  der  was  a  way  no'th,  an'  I  made 
up  mah  min'  to  try  it  some  day.  One  day  ob  freedom 
spoils  a  man  fo'  bein'  a  slave.    Dar  wa'n't  no  chance 

216 


Martin    Brook 

den,  an'  we  went  'round  to  de  ole  place  by  sea.  When 
I  got  dar,  it  wan't  lak  de  ole  plantation.  Mah  wife  was 
dead,  an'  mah  boy  had  took  up  wid  one  de  gals  on  de 
nex'  place.  Marse  Lyndon,  he  didn't  come  back  fo' 
a  long  time,  an'  Marse  Griffin,  he  wa'n't  ve'y  ca'ful 
'bout  me.  Den  mah  boy,  he  mak  heap  o'  trubble, 
'cause  dey  sol'  his  gal  an'  took  her  down  to  Geo'gia. 
Den  we  made  plans,  but  hit  was  a  long  time  'fore  we 
had  a  chance  to  git  away.  Seben  ob  us  stah'ted.  Two 
was  caught  an'  one  died.  An'  heah  we  is,  Marse  Martin 
— fo'  of  us  hidin'  in  de  bresh." 

"How  did  you  come  up  the  river  and  the  lake?" 

"  Well,  I  reckon  dar's  some  one  a-lookin'  fo'  his  boat/' 
Enoch  said,  mysteriously.  "We  was  helped  along, 
across  de  ole  State  an'  up  into  Penns'vany  by  our  own 
people,  in  de  mountains  an'  de  ma'shes,  an'  when  we 
got  up  fah  'nuff,  we  took  the  Undergroun'." 

"The  what?" 

"  De  Undergroun'  road." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

Enoch  drew  a  small  parcel  from  the  inner  pocket  of 
his  ragged  woollen  shirt  and  carefully  unwound  a  rag, 
revealing  a  metal  token.  He  laid  this  in  Martin's 
hand. 

"Dat's  de  ticket  on  de  Undergroun'.  You  kin  see 
I's  honest." 

"  What  is  this?  Money?"  Martin  asked,  as  he  turned 
the  copper  over  and  over,  without  being  able  to  decipher 
its  figures  and  legends  in  the  darkness. 

"Yas,  sah,"  Enoch  said,  wisely,  "it's  money,  fo' 
suah.  It's  de  price  o'  freedom.  It's  de  ticket  on  de 
Undergroun'  road.  I's  brung  hit  heah  fo'  you.  Dey 
ain't  no  need  ob  it  now.  We's  sartin  to  git  on.  But 
1  heerd  you  was  heah,  an'  I  wanted  to  see  you  an'  tell 
you  dat  ole  Enoch  was  free  again.  Yas,  sah — free 
once  mo'.    I  learned  a  heap  while  I  was  with  you,  Marse 

217 


Martin    Brook 

Martin,  'bout  readin'  an'  writin',  an'  l's  cahrin,  fo' 
dese  yeah  po'  folks  an'  showin'  dem  de  way.  When 
we  gets  to  Canadah,  we'll  be  in  Gawd's  land." 

"God's  land?     Isn't  this  God's  land  where  we  are?" 

"  Not  fo'  de  slave,  Marse  Martin." 

"Don't  call  me  master/'  Martin  cried,  starting  up. 
" I  am  not  your  master." 

"Cahn't  get  ober  dat,"  Enoch  said.  "Ebery  white 
man  is  Marse  somebody  to  us  po'  black  folks,  sah. 
We's  hid  from  dem  as  we  does  from  de  bloodhoun's. 
Ebery  white  man's  han'  is  aginst  us.  If  we's  caught 
now,  dey'll  kill  ole  Enoch  lak  a  rattler.  I's  took  mah 
life  in  mah  han'.  I  struck  Marse  Griffin.  Marse 
No'thcote  couldn't  help  me  when  I  was  with  him,  an' 
37ou  couldn't  keep  me  from  Marse  Lyndon.  The  laws 
is  made  fo'  to  catch  us  an'  sen'  us  back." 

Martin  sat  down.  The  piece  of  copper  seemed  to 
burn  in  his  hand. 

"You  are  right — you  are  right."  After  a  moment's 
pause  he  asked:  "Where  did  you  get  this,  Enoch?" 
holding  up  the  token. 

"  Dat's  de  token  dey  use  to  show  dat  de  runaways  is 
honest.  Quaker  gem'man  gib  it  to  me  in  Penns'vany. 
He  got  it  from  a  gem'man  in  Injany,  where  der  is  frien's 
ob  our  people.  If  you  shows  dat,  dey  knows  you  is 
boun'  by  de  oath." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Enoch,"  Martin  said, 
shaking  his  head. 

"Well,  you  see,  1  cahn't  'splain  hit,  Marse  Martin, 
'cause  I  doan't  know,  but  I  wants  you  to  hab  it,  an'  1 
wants  to  gib  you  de  name  ob  de  gem'man  in  Troy  dat 
cahn  tell  you  'bout  it — de  one  dat  sent  me  heah." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"Marse  Chichester." 

"  Charles  Chichester  ?"  Mary's  letter,  and  her  mention 
of  this  man,  flashed  into  his  mind.     "  Did  he  help  you?" 

218 


Martin    Brook 

"  Yas,  sah.  When  I  showed  him  de  token,  he  took 
car'  ob  us  fo'  two  days;  an'  when  I  tole  him  who  I 
was  an'  war  I'd  libcd,  he  'membered  you.  I  tole  him 
I  was  in  Marse  No'thcote's  house  at  Elmhurst  fo'  years 
an'  how  I  knowed  you,  and  he  was  suah  you'd  help  me, 
if  I'd  stop  heah  on  de  way,  an'  I  felt  lak  I  mus'  see 
you  once  mo',  fo'  de  sake  ob  de  good  ole  days.  Den 
he  tole  me  jus'  whar  you  was  an'  how  to  fin'  you.  He's 
de  gem'man  dat  keeps  de  Undergroun'  station  in  Troy." 

Martin  put  the  token  in  his  pocket. 

Perplexed  by  the  fragmentary  and  strangely  sug- 
gestive story  of  the  man,  he  made  no  further  attempt  to 
solve  the  mystery. 

Enoch  had  sprung  out  of  the  earth  at  his  feet,  and  at 
the  moment  he  was  pleading  for  a  wider  field  in  which 
to  work.  From  these  black  lips  he  had  heard  the  denial 
that  this  was  God's  land — this  region,  wrung  from  a 
political  power  in  Jehovah's  name.  But  the  claim  of 
victory  was  a  mockery — an  insult  to  the  Most  High! 

He,  Martin  Brook,  who  had  consecrated  his  life  to 
the  freeing  of  the  slave,  was  listening  on  a  spot  where 
freedom  had  been  so  rhetorically  proclaimed  to  the 
unanswerable  declaration  that  the  boast  of  human 
freedom  was  a  lie.  For  what  had  Ethan  Allen  striven? 
For  what  had  McDonough  fought  ?  To  establish  liberty 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness;  to  maintain  national 
dignity  in  honor. 

Yet  here  was  a  living  proof  of  the  falsity  of  these  pro- 
fessions. Here  was  a  man  against  whom  every  hand 
was  raised,  because  his  skin  was  black — the  man  who 
had  saved  the  life  of  Martin  Brook ! 

In  the  east,  the  first  gleams  of  a  summer  morning 
shot  upward.  A  pale  gray  light,  suffused  with  rose 
tints,  dissolved  the  secret-covering  night  as  Enoch,  on 
his  knees,  clasped  Martin's  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips. 

219 


Martin    Brook 

"Now  I  mus'  be  goin',  Marse  Martin.  Its  most 
sun-up  an'  I  mus'  get  back  to  mah  folks  in  de  bresh." 

"Enoch/'  Martin  said,  "take  me  to  your  people. 
God  has  sent  you  twice  across  my  path.  This  time  I 
shall  heed  the  summons.  I  will  help  you  and  your 
race." 

Enochs  face  glowed  with  pleasure  as  he  silently  led 
the  way  to  the  hiding-place,  remote  from  the  village, 
in  a  deep  thicket  near  the  lake. 

When  they  reached  the  spot,  Enoch  gave  a  peculiar 
cry,  which  was  answered  from  the  bushes.  Black 
faces  emerged  from  the  shadows. 

The  boat  they  had  come  in — the  skiff  of  a  fisherman 
on  the  lower  Hudson — was  drawn  up  on  the  shore  and 
turned  over,  forming  a  shelter.  It  was  covered  so 
thickly  with  boughs  that  only  an  experienced  woods- 
man could  have  detected  it. 

Martin  and  Enoch  worked  their  way  among  the  tangle 
of  undergrowth.  Three  creatures  —  two  men  and  a 
woman — had  crawled  from  under  the  boat  and  were 
crouched  on  the  ground.  They  were  ragged,  dirty, 
unkempt,  and  repulsive.  Their  feet  and  hands  were 
sore  and  swollen.  Through  the  holes  in  their  cloth- 
ing could  be  seen  ridges  of  flesh,  where  the  whip  and 
the  branding-iron  had  left  indelible  marks.  (£    (h  < 

Enoch  spoke  to  them,  and  they  responded,  dully. 

Sick  at  heart,  Martin  turned  away.  He  could  find 
no  words  of  consolation  for  these  miserable  creatures. 
Enoch  followed  him  to  the  cleared  space. 

"  Who  is  the  woman?"  Martin  asked. 

"She's  mah  gal,  sah." 

"  Your  daughter?" 

"  Dat's  what  I  reckon  I'd  call  her  if  I  was  white,  sah." 

Martin  walked  up  and  down  the  beach,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  a  look  of 
conviction  on  his  face — his  mind  made  up. 

220 


Martin    Brook 

"Enoch,"  he  said,  "you  will  stay  here  to-day?" 

"  Yas,  sah." 

"1  will  come  at  sundown  and  bring  you  food,  and 
perhaps  some  clothes  for  your  daughter." 

"We  need  blankets  mo'n  food.  We  can  fish — an' 
de  Lo'd  tells  us  whar  de  co'n  an'  taters  is." 

Martin  walked  rapidly  away,  but  from  a  rise  of  ground 
he  looked  back.  He  saw  Enoch  sitting  just  outside  the 
bushes,  his  head  bowed  on  his  knees. 

"And  this  is  Enoch!"  Martin  said  aloud.  "This 
is  the  man  who  was  so  proud  to  lay  out  the  fine  clothes 
for  the  master  of  Elmhurst,  and  to  serve  that  old  Ma- 
deira !  This  is  the  man  I  taught  to  read  and  write !  This 
is  the  man  who  saved  my  life  at  the  roll  way!  And  I 
am  the  same  Martin  Brook,  a  minister  of  God,  who  was 
just  now  pleading  for  a  greater  field.  The  field  is  here  I 
Enoch's  voice  is  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness.    God  has  heard  and  answered  my  prayer!" 


Chapter  IV 

"  MR.  BROOK,  breakfast's  ready/'  Mrs.  Dalton  called 
up  the  stairwa}^  to  Martin,  as  he  sat  in  his  room  after 
his  return  from  his  interview  with  Enoch.  Her  voice 
startled  him  and  he  sprang  out  of  his  chair.  He  had 
not  thought  of  going  to  bed  on  reaching  home.  He 
had  refreshed  his  tired  body  with  a  cold  dash  and  a 
vigorous  rub — the  only  means  of  bathing  in  that  primi- 
tive place — and  had  dropped  into  his  chair  from  force 
of  habit.     He  realized  now  that  he  must  have  dozed. 

"Yes,"  he  called  back,  "1  am  coming,"  and  went 
down  to  the  little  room  that  served  a  general  purpose — 
dining-room,  living-room,  and  parlor. 

Mrs.  Dalton,  who  was  not  a  Methodist,  but  a  widow 
of  irreproachable  repute,  and  who  had  shown  such  lib- 
erality in  taking  him  as  a  boarder,  at  a  very  moderate 
compensation,  scrutinized  him  sharply,  over  her  silver- 
bowed  glasses,  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 

Her  steady  gaze  annoyed  him.  The  purple  ribbons 
in  her  cap;  the  spotless  check  gingham  apron  that 
covered  her  prim  print  dress;  the  searching  black  eyes 
and  smooth  black  hair,  streaked  with  gra5^;  the  thin, 
high-boned  features,  seemed  to  him  an  endless  army 
of  interrogation  points,  struggling  through  a  maze 
of  maternal  solicitude. 

Martin  caught  a  reflection  of  his  haggard  face  in  a 
looking-glass  on  the  wTall  opposite  to  him.  There  were 
dark  hollows  under  his  eyes.  He  forced  himself  to 
appear  at  ease,  and  show  a  relish  for  the  buttered  toast 
and  fresh  eggs  Mrs.  Dalton  persisted  he  should  eat. 

222 


Martin    Brook 

"You  must  ha'  got  up  pretty  early  this  morning/' 
she  said,  as  she  poured  his  coffee.  "  I  heard  you  come 
in,  and  1  couldn't  imagine  what  the  matter  was." 

"  I  didn't  rest  well  last  night/'  Martin  said,  evasively. 
"I  took  an  early  walk." 

"  Well,  you  look  real  peaked.  Ain't  you  feelin'  well? 
I  guess  you  need  some  more  boneset  tea.  I'll  steep  you 
a  dose  or  two,  so's  you  can  take  it  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning." 

"Thank  you,"  Martin  said,  briefly.  He  felt  that  he 
must  divert  that  gaze.  "  There  is  so  much  suffering 
in  the  world/'  he  said,  stirring  his  coffee  slowly.  "I 
found  a  case  last— that  is,  recently,  of  absolute  destitu- 
tion. I  though  perhaps  you  would  be  able  and  willing 
to  furnish  an  old  dress  or  some  cast-off  clothing.  Any- 
thing would  be  acceptable— especially  a  blanket." 

"Lan's  sake!  a  dress?  'Tain't  them  shiftless  Skin- 
ners, I  hope.  They  alius  do  appeal  so  to  strangers," 
she  said,  chewing  noisily  on  her  toast. 

'  No ;  it's  quite  another  case,"  he  replied,  wearily. 

"Well,  I  hain't  got  no  blankets  to  spare,  but  maybe 
there's  sumpin  up  overhead  in  the  wood -shed.  It's 
a  woman,  eh?  I'll  see  if  I  can't  scare  up  sumpin. 
Where's  she  live?  You  want  me  to  take  the  things  to 
her,  I  s'pose?"  She  twisted  her  head  and  looked  over 
her  glasses  in  a  flutter  at  a  new  bit  of  gossip. 

"No,"  Martin  said,  quickly.  "I  will  see  the  person 
myself.  I  shall  walk  over  to— the  vicinity  later  in 
the  day." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton,  filling  the  exclamation  with 
disapproval. 

He  left  his  breakfast  half  eaten  and  went  up  stairs. 

"Well,  I  declare  to  gracious!"  the  good  woman 
mused,  "  if  that  don't  beat  all !  That  man  is  nigh  work- 
in'  himself  to  death. "  She  drummed  with  her  teaspoon. 
"Now,  I  wonder  who  on  earth  that  woman  can  be! 

223 


Martin    Brook 

I  hope  she  ain't  got  no  hold  on  him — "  She  paused, 
breathless,  at  the  unutterable  speculation. 

Martin  seated  himself  at  his  study  table  and  tried 
to  resume  interest  in  the  doctrinal  sermon  he  was  writing 
before  Mary's  letter  was  received.  But  he  could  not. 
For  some  time  he  remained  idle. 

"Why  do  I  hesitate  to  tell  Mrs.  Dalton  the  truth?" 
he  asked  himself.  "  Why  do  1  fear  to  go  openly  to  any 
one  of  my  church  members  and  tell  him  of  the  fugitives 
and  their  need  of  aid?  Because  of  the  Law!  The  law 
makes  this  an  offence,  and  public  sentiment  is  as  strong 
against  anti-slavery  men  here  as  it  is  in  the  South.  No 
one  would  help  me,  but  every  one  would  try  to  capture 
Enoch  and  give  him  up." 

Mrs.  Dalton's  strident  voice  came  to  him  from  below, 
interrupting  his  thoughts. 

"  Mr.  Brook !  Mr.  Brook !  They 's  a  man  here  wants 
to  see  you." 

Martin  got  up,  irritated  at  the  interruption.  His 
head  throbbed.  He  felt  that  he  simply  could  not  face 
one  of  his  church  members,  who  had  probably  come 
to  talk  over  some  petty  trouble  in  the  society.  The 
insignificance  of  his  church  work  appeared  once  more, 
as  he  forced  himself  to  respond  to  the  call. 

"Yes,"  said  Martin.  "1  hear  you."  He  dragged  his 
weary  feet  down  the  narrow  stairs  and  stopped  on  the 
lower  step,  to  gather  nervous  strength.  Mrs.  Dalton 
held  back  the  door  while  he  waited  and  leaned  towards 
him. 

"It's  some  stranger,"  she  whispered.  "I  got  them 
things  you  spoke  of.  They  ain't  so  very  nice,  but  I 
guess  they're  good  enough  for  them  beggars — beggars 
mustn't  be  choosers.  I  found  one  old  blanket — moths 
been  in  it,  but  I  guess  it'll  answer.  He's  out  on  the 
porch — wouldn't  come  in." 

Martin  crossed  the  little  room,  where  the  pungent 

224 


Martin    Brook 

odor  of  steeping  herbs  assailed  him.  Mrs.  Dalton 
let  the  door  slam  shut  of  its  own  gravity,  and  stood 
wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron.  * 

"  Thank  you/'  Martin  said,  with  a  sigh.  As  he  went 
to  the  porch,  Mrs.  Dalton  hurried  up  to  the  window 
and  pulled  the  green  paper  shade  aside  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  his  meeting  with  the  stranger. 

"Seems  to  me  I've  seen  him  somewhars,"  she  said. 
"  Can't  be  one  of  them— "     She  listened. 

"Mr.  Brook?"  the  man  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir.     You  have  an  advantage,  Mr.-?" 

"Chichester,  of  Troy." 

Martin  drew  back,  with  an  almost  superstitious 
dread  at  the  mention  of  this  name. 

"Will  you  walk  in?"  he  said,  recovering  his  self- 
possession.     "  1  am  pleased  to  meet  you." 

<<N0 — 0j"  Mr.  Chichester  replied,  wiping  his  forehead, 
and  fanning  himself  with  his  Panama  hat.  "This 
hot  weather  rather  catches  me  between  wind  and  water." 
He  laughed— a  jolly,  infectious  laugh.  Martin  smiled. 
He  noted  the  stalwart  figure  of  the  man ;  a  sandy-haired 
blond,  with  keen  blue  eyes,  rosy  round  cheeks,  full 
lips,  large  mouth  and  even  white  teeth— evidently  a 
good  judge  of  eatables.  His  hands  showed  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  driving  without  gloves.  His  light  sum- 
mer clothes  were  of  expensive  materials,  but  cut  for 
comfort.  He  defied  the  conventions  in  the  matter  of  a 
scarf.  Martin  noticed  this  particularly,  and  envied 
his  freedom  from  the  high  stock  that  a  clergyman  must 
wear.  A  worldly  man— Martin  saw  all  this  at  a  glance 
— but  a  clean,  clear-cut  man,  of  pronounced  views  and 
apparent  success. 

"Why  can't  we  sit  here  under  the  trees?"  Chichester 
suggested.  "  It's  pretty  warm  in  the  house  to-day  and 
there  is  a  little  breeze  out  here." 

Martin    smiled.     The    man's    self-assertive    manner 
P  225 


Martin    Brook 

was  unlike  that  of  the  customary  caller,  who  usually 
seemed  in  awe  of  the  preacher. 

Mrs.  Dalton  let  the  curtain  fall  as  the  men  passed 
from  her  view.  "What  on  earth  can  he  want?"  she 
said. 

"And  I'm  glad  to  meet  you  again,  Mr.  Brook/' 
Chichester  declared,  heartily,  sitting  down  on  a  bench 
in  the  shade  and  compelling  Martin  by  a  mere  gesture 
to  join  him.  "  Say,  have  you  forgotten  our  first  meet- 
ing?" 

"No,"  Martin  said,  with  a  dignified  smile.  "1  could 
scarcely  forget  that  incident." 

"Incident?  It  was  one  of  the  prettiest  fights  I  ever 
saw.  You  taught  me  a  trick  or  two.  1  tried  it  my- 
self, and  won  a  reputation  on  my  street." 

"1  am  sorry,"  Martin  said,  drj-ly,  "if  I  gave  you  in- 
structions in  such  matters." 

"You  needn't  be,"  Chichester  exclaimed.  "It's 
an  art  to  be  cultivated.  Oh,  of  course,  a  minister  can't 
go  around  looking  for  a  fight ;  but  in  my  line  of  business, 
it  comes  in  handy — wool-trade,  you  know.  Warehouse- 
men and  roustabouts  sometimes  get  too  talkative. 
We're  down  on  the  wharf  and  often  the  men  get  pretty 
rough." 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  quietly.    "I  know  the  location." 

"  I'm  out  in  the  country  a  good  deal  now,  since  father's 
death—" 

"Your  father  is  dead?" 

"  Yes,  dear  old  man.  I'm  the  firm  now.  Just  drove 
down  from  Burlington.  Over  on  the  other  side  of 
the  lake — Keeseville — I  met  one  of  your  friends.  Miss 
Whittaker — a  fine  woman  that.  Her  uncle  buys  for 
me.  Crop's  not  first-class.  If  I  wasn't  a  confirmed 
old  bach,  I  tell  you,  that  young  lady  would  be  about — " 

"Miss  Whittaker  wrote  me  that  you  were  there." 

"Did  she?    She  spoke  mighty  well  of  you — every- 

226 


Martin    Brook 

body  does.  I'm  glad  you're  making  a  reputation — 
with  your  head,  not  your  fists."  He  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh. 

Martin  remained  silent. 

"Ever  think  of  going  to  Troy?"  Chichester  went  on. 
"You  ought  to  be  in  a  bigger  field.  This  ain't  the 
place  for  you.  I  had  a  talk  with  Bishop  Hedding — 
grand  old  man — and  he's  your  friend.  Better  get  his 
ear  next  spring  and  have  him  send  you  to  Troy." 
Chichester's  face  disappeared  behind  a  bandanna  as  he 
wiped  his  forehead. 

Martin  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  never  seek  an  ap- 
pointment/' he  said. 

"What?"  Chichester  cried,  with  his  handkerchief 
poised  in  the  air.  "You're  wrong.  Everybody  has 
to  —  or  get  sent  to  the  wilderness.  1  ain't  a  Meth- 
odist—  father  was,  and  I  hang  to  the  old  church — 
but  I  tell  you  politics  rule,  in  Conference  and  out 
of  it." 

"  I  am  not  a  politician,"  Martin  observed. 

"Neither  am  I,"  Chichester  laughed.  "I  ain't  much 
of  anything  from  my  shoulders  up;  but  I  like  a  good 
sermon,  and  I  want  to  see  the  brains  of  our  Conference 
come  to  the  front.  Let  me  give  you  a  lift.  I'm  chock- 
ful  of  business,  when  I  get  started." 

"You  were  recently  at  Keeseville?"  Martin  asked, 
evading  the  question. 

"Yes — quiet  town.  Nice  people.  They  have  heard 
of  you  as  a  man  should  be  heard  of.  See,  what's  that 
line  of  poetry,  'Golden  opinions,'  you  know?  Never 
could  keep  that  sort  of  thing  in  my  head.  Good  idea, 
though.  Well,  I'll  tell  you—"  He  glanced  about 
him  and  lowered  his  voice.  "1  heard  what  you  did 
down  there  at  Sandy  Hill  some  years  ago,  with  that 
fugitive  slave.  Miss  Whittaker  told  me.  You're  just 
the  man  for  a  prominent  place.     Ever  give  that  sub- 

227 


Martin    Brook 

ject  much  of   a   thought  ?"     Chichester   bent   forward 
confidentially. 

"What  subject ?"  Martin  asked,  meeting  the  look 
with  disfavor.  "1  have  often  thought  of  my  former 
life,  before  my  career  was  determined  on.  1  have  no 
regrets/' 

"  Yes,  1  know.  But — "  Chichester  closed  his  eyes 
to  a  narrow  slit  and  studied  Martin.  "That  other 
matter — the  slavery  question,  you  know?" 

"  Yes,  1  have  given  it  a  great  deal  of  thought/'  Martin 
said,  frankl3T  and  firmly.     "Why?" 

"Oh,"  said  Chichester,  "that's  good.  I  might  have 
known  that — after  all  your  experience  with — with  the 
judge,  and  so  forth,  and  what  you  did  for  that  negro — 
and  all  you  lost  by  it  —  of  course  you  have.  You 
couldn't  help  it.  I'll  be  —  switched  if  1  don't  admire 
you.     Say,  did  }T>u  ever  hear  from  that  man  again?" 

Martin  met  his  gaze  squarely. 

"Mr.  Chichester,"  he  said,  and  he  was  amazed  how 
closely  his  voice  resembled  Enoch's  tone,  "I  saw  a 
black  man  last — recently — who  said  he  had  received 
help  from  vou." 

"Enoch?" 

"Yes." 

"When?"  the  word  was  in  a  whisper. 

"  Last  night.     Those  people  are  still  here." 

"Is  that  so?"  Chichester  mused.  "I  thought  they'd 
be  in  Canada  by  this  time."  Then  more  earnestly: 
"You  helped  them,  too?" 

"I  shall  to-night." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that."  After  a  moment's 
pause,  and  taking  several  pieces  of  money  from  his 
pocket :  "  I  won't  try  to  see  him.  Might  attract  atten- 
tion— a  stranger.  Give  this  to  the  old  man,  and  tell 
him  he  can  write  to  me  when  he  needs  a  little  help. 
He's  honest — he's  all  right.     He  knows  how  to  read 

228 


Martin    Brook 

and  write.  He  said  you  taught  him.  You  know 
that's  against  the  laws  down  South,  of  course,  and  that 
it's  objected  to  by  the  good  Northern  Christians?"  He 
watched  Martin. 

"  1  am  not  acquainted  with  the  laws  of  all  the  States/ ' 
he  replied,  resenting  the  last  clause. 

"  Well,  you  had  better  look  into  them,  and  learn  about 
the  treatment  of  the  blacks.  1  guess  that  will  stir  your 
fighting  blood." 

"  1  think  it  has  been  stirred,"  Martin  said,  as  he  thrust 
the  coins  into  «his  pocket.  His  fingers  touched  the 
copper  token,  which  he  had  forgotten,  and  he  drew  it 
out. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  thoughtfulness  of  Enoch," 
he  said.  "Do  you  know  what  this  means?"  He  held 
up  the  copper  token. 

Chichester  gave  a  glance  at  the  token  and  looked 
eagerly  into  Martin's  face,  at  the  same  time  making  a 
sign:  he  laid  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  over  the 
fingers  of  his  left,  and  then  quickly  lifted  them.  Martin 
paid  no  heed  to  the  signal — it  was  a  mere  gesture  to 
him.  Chichester  scowled.  "Where  did  you  get  that?" 
he  said,  sharply. 

"Enoch  gave  it  to  me  last  night.  He  said  it  was  a 
ticket  on  the  'Underground  road/  and  when  I  asked 
him  what  he  meant,  he  said  Charles  Chichester,  of  Troy, 
could  tell  me.     What  is  the  '  Underground  road'?" 

Chichester  was  silent.  He  drummed  on  the  crown 
of  his  hat  with  his  fingers,  and  sat  lost  in  thought. 
Finally  he  said: 

"  Why  do  you  help  that  old  man?  Why  did  you  give 
up  your  chances  with  Judge  Northcote  for  him?" 

"  That  question  is  a  broad  one.  I  may  not  be  able  to 
answer  it  in  a  single  sentence.  Enoch  once  did  me  a 
great  service,  but  that  was  not  the  cause.  There  is  a 
principle  involved  which   I  did   not  fully  understand 

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Martin  Brook 

at  that  moment  —  an  application  of  the  principle  of 
abstract  justice,  which  I  shall  hereafter  devote  my  life 
to  comprehending. 

"Because  you  hated  slavery?"  Chichester  asked. 

Martin  glanced  up  quickly.  "Yes.  Do  you  hate 
slavery?" 

"Hate  it?"  said  Chichester.     "With  all  my  soul!" 

"With  all  nry  soul!"  Martin  replied. 

"Good!"  cried  Chichester.  "There  is  a  practical 
work  for  such  a  man  as  you,  Mr.  Brook." 

"Yes,"  Martin  assented,  "and  we  must  make  it 
practicable,  as  well." 

"Here  we  have  the  case  in  a  nutshell,"  Chichester 
went  on ;  "  the  laws  uphold  slavery.  1  believe  in  saving 
bodies,  as  well  as  souls.  The  Constitution  commands 
the  surrender  of  slaves  and — and  apprentices  who  es- 
cape from  tyranny  into  another  State.  1  believe  you 
were  an  indentured  bound-boy  at  one  time.     Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  Martin  said. 

"Well,  we  are  growing  more  considerate  of  white 
boys,  but  in  some  of  the  free  States,  like  Illinois,  anti- 
slavery  meetings  to  help  the  blacks  are  prohibited  by 
statute.  We  are  denied  the  right  of  free  speech  and 
free  press.  Here  in  our  State,  public  sentiment  rules, 
and  we  who  oppose  slavery  are  under  a  ban.  Would 
you  dare  to  ask  your  Christian  church  members  for 
help  in  getting  old  Enoch  on  to  Canada?  We  boast  of 
our  release  from  the  oppression  of  England,  and  yet 
our  people  are  proscribed  from  sending  our  slaves  from 
these  boasted  States  into  British  territory  for  freedom. 
1  tell  you,  our  Declaration  is  a  lie  and  our  Constitution 
a  fraud!" 

"That  is  strong  language,"  Martin  said. 

"Can  you  refute  it?  The  churches,  too.  Now, 
they  claim  to  teach  Christ  and  Him  crucified,  but  I  tell 
you,  such  a  profession  of  religion  is  a  sham.     I  have 

230 


Martin    Brook 

refused  to  join  your  church  just  because  it  upholds  a 
living  lie!" 

"  Pardon  me  if  1  decline  to  listen  to  such  statements/' 
Martin  declared,  rising,  the  churchman  in  him  assert- 
ing itself,  but  Chichester  pulled  him  back. 

"  Come,  let's  be  sensible  and  get  our  feet  on  the  ground. 
1  beg  your  pardon.  You  asked  about  that  token.  It  is 
something  new.  We  had  to  have  an  evidence  of  the 
honesty  of  the  ignorant  slaves  who  are  escaping.  They 
are  forbidden  by  law  to  learn  to  read  or  write.  Many 
of  our  own  people,  too,  are  ignorant.  We  required  some- 
thing easily  hidden  on  the  person  and  not  very  notice- 
able in  itself.  So  we  had  a  limited  number  of  these 
tokens  moulded.  It  looks  like  a  coin.  It  is  not  milled 
on  the  edge.  The  legend  is :  '  United  States  of  Amer- 
ica/ Here  is  the  laurel  wreath,  symbol  of  integrity, 
and  the  motto,  'Liberty,  1837/  Turn  it  over.  The 
figure  of  a  woman,  kneeling  and  in  shackles,  with  hands 
raised  appealingly,  her  face  turned  to  implore  sympathy. 
She  is  encircled  by  the  inscription,  '  Am  1  not  a  Woman 
and  a  Sister?'" 

Martin  saw,  in  his  mind's  eye,  the  woman  under  the 
boat — Enoch's  daughter.  Was  she  his  sister  in  Christ, 
recognized  as  such  by  the  Christian  world?  He  saw 
the  force  of  Chichester's  term,  "sham." 

"Mr.  Brook,  I  believe  I  can  trust  you,"  Chichester 
affirmed.  "Besides,  doing  as  you  have  already  done, 
in  helping  Enoch,  you  are  under  the  ban  of  the  law. 
I  could  give  you  up,  if  so  disposed,  and  subject  you  to 
severe  punishment." 

"You  can  trust  me,  sir,  without  threats,"  Martin 
replied. 

"  I  meant  no  threat,  but  simply  a  statement  of  fact. 
Let  me  explain.  There  is  an  oath-bound  and  effective 
organization,  extending  from  the  South  to  the  Canada 
line,  especially  strong  in  Indiana,  Ohio,  and  Pennsyl- 

231 


Martin    Brook 

vania,  with  members  in  New  York,  known  as  the  '  Un- 
derground Railroad/  in  satire  of  the  new  system  of 
transportation.  Fugitive  slaves  are  received  at  the 
'stations/  on  farms  mostly,  for  we  try  to  avoid  large 
cities,  and  are  sent  on  by  night  in  every  conceivable 
disguise — under  loads  of  ha3T  or  sacks  of  grain,  or 
headed  up  in  barrels — and  kept  in  seclusion  during 
the  day.  We  hide  them  so  as  to  defy  search.  When 
the  leader  hands  out  this  token,  we  are  bound  to  help 
the  man  or  bands  along  to  the  next  station.  There 
are  several  routes.  My  home  is  a  station.  I  get  the 
runaways  up  through  the  river  and  canal  to  Whitehall. 
1  helped  Enoch — the  man  who  saved  your  life.  This 
is  all  a  legal  crime.  I  am  liable  to  arrest,  at  least  to 
civil  action  by  the  courts.  Will  you  give  me  up  to 
the  law?" 

Chichester  held  out  his  hand.     Martin  grasped  it. 

"No/'  he  said. 

"Will  3Tou  come  down  and  join  our  society?" 

"I  do  not  see  my  way  clear  to  do  that  at  present/' 
Martin  said.  "I  shall  not  join  any  oath-bound  or- 
ganization.    It  is  against  my  principles." 

"But  we  must  meet  our  enemy  in  that  way  until 
we  are  stronger,"  Chichester  argued. 

"1  will  help  you,  depend  upon  that.  If  3'ou  cannot 
trust  my  word,  my  oath  is  valueless.  But,  Mr.  Chi- 
chester, you  have  raised  a  very  serious  question  in  my 
mind — that  of  the  law.  I  have  naturally  a  reverence 
for  law.  My  vows  as  a  minister  imply  that;  and  I 
must  do  now  what  I  once  hoped  to  do  professionally: 
make  a  careful  stud}?  of  the  law  as  it  exists  in  all  of 
the  States." 

"Do  so,"  said  Chichester,  "and  you'll  become  an 
abolitionist." 

"I  shall  leave  the  result  with  God." 

"Very   well.     Anyhow,   I   shall   trust  you.     Think 

232 


Martin    Brook 

on  this  subject— study  the  Southern  laws  and  notice  how 
completely  the  North  is  ruled  by  the  slavery  question. 
1  must  be  going  now/' 

Mr.  Chichester  shook  Martin's  hand.  "  Good-bye, 
and  remember  this  is  in  confidence.     I  rely  on  you 

fully." 

"What  we  have  said  is  in  confidence,  sir/'  Martin 
said,  warmly.  "Good-bye.  I  hope  we  may  meet  in 
the  near  future." 

He  watched  the  stranger,  who  had  come  again  into 
his  life  at  such  a  furious  pace,  saw  him  climb  into  the 
wagon  and  drive  off,  and  then  walked  slowly  to  the 
house. 

Mrs.  Dalton  met  him  in  the  doorway.  "  Had  quite 
a  talk,  didn't  ye?  Is  your  friend  a  city  man?  He  looks 
like  one— so  spry  like.  I  was  just  goin'  to  ask  him  to 
stop  to  dinner/' 

"I  don't  think  he  would  have  remained,"  Martin 
replied. 

"Is  he  a  Methodist?  He  don't  look  much  like  a 
preacher  I"  she  ventured. 

"He  is  a  Methodist  by  birth,"  Martin  said,  coldly. 
His  reserve  silenced  her,  but  failed  to  satisfy  her  curi- 
osity. Nor  did  he  try  to  do  so.  He  kept  his  room 
during  the  day,  except  for  a  brief  dinner,  despite  the 
heat,  writing— at  least,  so  Mrs.  Dalton  thought,  as 
she  listened  at  the  crack  of  the  stair  door.  He  had  not 
asked  for  "the  things"  after  all,  and  she  was  "half  a 
mind  to  put  them  back  again." 

But  after  tea,  he  said:  "If  you  please,  I  will  take 
that  bundle  now." 

She  brought  it  and  he  started  out  to  the  street.  He 
saw  that  she  was  watching  him,  and  he  acted  another 
lie :  he  turned  in  the  opposite  direction,  making  a  wide 
circuit  of  the  town. 

He  seemed  to  himself  a  criminal;  but  to  Enoch,  as 

233 


Martin    Brook 

he  told  of  Chichester's  visit  and  gave  him  the  money 
and  the  bundle,  he  seemed  a  minister  of  good. 

The  fugitives  were  ready  to  start  when  he  reached 
the  lake.  He  saw  the  little  boat  go  tossing  out  into 
the  dark,  and  heard  that  penetrating  voice  come  back, 
as  he  knelt  upon  the  sands  : 

"Gawd  bless  you,  Marse  Martin!" 


Chapter  V 

THE  keen  ear  of  the  excellent  Mrs.  Dalton  had  not 
deceived  her :  it  seldom  did  when  disposed  in  the  vicinity 
of  an  open  doorwaj^.  Martin  had  spent  that  summer 
afternoon  writing. 

But  not  writing  a  sermon.  Although  it  was  Thurs- 
day, and  only  one  sermon  was  on  paper,  he  devoted 
the  greater  part  of  his  time  to  letters.  One  of  these 
was  to  Mary  Whittaker.  He  carefully  read  it  over 
before  sealing  it : 

"My  DEAR  FRIEND  MARY, — I  have  this  day  seen  and  talked 
freely  with  the  Mr.  Charles  Chichester  of  whom  you  spoke  in 
your  recent  letter.  He  impressed  me  as  a  worldly  man ;  but, 
like  you,  I  believe  he  is  honest  and  sincere.  I  am  inclined  to  add 
that  I  regard  him,  also,  as  a  generous  man,  free  with  his  money. 
Probably  he  does  not  have  to  give  quite  so  close  heed  to  temporal 
affairs  as  some  of  us  do ;  but  I  trust  he  will  make  proper  use  of 
his  opportunities.  He  introduced  a  topic,  the  details  of  which  I  am 
not  at  liberty  to  divulge,  which  has  set  me  to  thinking  of  an  old 
theme  in  a  new  way.  I  fear  we  are  living  in  a  troublous  period, 
and  that  the  Lord  will  visit  upon  us  His  great  wrath  for  our 
many  shortcomings.  I  feel  that  I  have  been  negligent  and 
blind.  I  am  determined  now  to  settle  a  question  of  vital  im- 
portance. 

"Mr.  Chichester  alluded  to  you  in  a  very  cordial  and  most  ap- 
proving way.  It  did  me  good  to  learn,  from  the  lips  of  a  stranger, 
of  the  esteem  in  which  you  are  held  for  your  numerous  virtues ; 
although  one  brief  allusion  to  his  own  regard  for  you  touched 
me  strangely.  May  I  ask,  as  a  friend  of  long  standing,  if  he  has 
ever  spoken  to  you  of  his  domestic  situation? 

"  Your  letter,  for  which  I  thank  you,  awakened  a  train  of  mem- 
ories, some  of  which  are,  as  you  can  readily  imagine,  extremely 

235 


Martin    Brook 

painful ;  while  others  are  most  tenderly  valued.  But  do  not  re- 
gard this  as  a  rebuke.  You  are  always  gentle  and  considerate 
of  others. 

"  I  am  contemplating  a  few  days'  visit  to  Keeseville.  Although 
this  may  seem  irrelevant,  it  truly  is  not  so ;  for  while  I  shall  doubt- 
less enjoy  seeing  my  friends — among  whom  3Tou  hold  a  foremost 
place — I  have  in  thought  another  purpose.  You  know  my  own 
library  is  very  limited.  The  new  subject  I  wish  to  investigate 
and  advise  myself  upon  necessitates  considerable  reading,  both 
of  history  and  the  law,  and  this  village  has  an  inadequate  supply 
of  such  books,  but  I  think  I  can  find  them  in  Keeseville. 

"  I  am  deeply  pained  to  learn  of  the  illness  of  Mrs.  Wright.  I 
have  ventured  to  request  permission  to  visit  her,  and  shall  await 
reply  from  Judge  Northcote,  before  asking  my  official  board  for 
a  leave  of  absence  from  my  charge  in  this  place.  Perhaps  I  may 
be  able  to  go  from  K.  to  Sandy  Hill,  stopping  a  day  or  two  at  Troy. 
Mr.  Chichester  kindly  invited  me  to  call  on  him.  He  may  be  able 
to  assist  me  in  my  new  studies. 

"I  hope  for  your  material  and  spiritual  welfare.  There  is  but 
one  Source  of  strength  in  time  of  trouble.  I  am  glad  if  I  was  the 
agent  that  turned  your  mind  to  Methodism.  Your  allusion  to 
the  influence  of  my  poor  sermons  is  profoundly  appreciated.  Sin- 
cerely, and  with  great  respect,  your  friend, 

"Martin  Brook." 

The  letter  he  wrote  to  Sandy  Hill  was  much  shorter : 

"Judge  George  Northcote: 

"DEAR  SIR, — I  have  learned,  with  profound  regret,  of  the  ill- 
ness of  Mrs.  Wright.  Will  you  grant  me  the  favor  of  a  few  hours' 
conversation  with  yourself  on  a  question  of  law,  and  also  a  short 
visit  with  her?  Respectfully,  your  obt.  servant, 

"Martin  Brook." 

As  he  sat  reading  these  letters  over,  the  need  of  books 
and  documents  not  now  within  his  reach  became  more 
and  more  apparent  to  him.  The  subject  of  American 
slavery  was  one  that  could  not  be  treated  as  a  doctrinal 
theme  in  polemics.  It  was  a  practical,  political,  and 
moral  fact,  not  a  theory.  His  data  must  be  exact. 
The  few  books  on  his  shelves  were  exclusively  theologi- 
cal,  Methodistic,  and  valueless  for  his  new  purpose.    Be- 

236 


Martin  Brook 

cause  of  this,  his  mind  turned  to  the  larger  village 
of  Keeseville,  where  he  believed  he  could  find  law- 
books, and  also  men's  opinions  on  the  legal  aspects  of 
the  case. 

"Oh,"  he  lamented,  "if  I  could  have  access  to  the 
Elmhurst  library  now,  how  much  it  would  aid  me." 
And  with  this  thought  in  mind,  he  wrote  as  he  did  to 
Judge  Northcote,  hoping  that  time  had  softened  the 
asperity  of  the  judge's  feelings  towards  him.  It  was 
the  first  letter  he  had  addressed  to  his  former  patron 
since  leaving  Elmhurst,  and  he  wrote  now,  as  a  man 
to  a  man.  But  at  the  same  time  he  felt  a  desire  to  see 
little  mother  —  the  dear  woman  he  loved  so  tenderly. 
Her  illness  was,  he  thought,  a  sufficient  excuse  to 
justify  the  letter,  although  he  admitted  to  himself  that 
the  underlying  motive  was  his  wish  to  argue  with  the 
judge  the  vital  issue  of  the  legality  and  justice  of  this 
one  great  question — a  question  so  vast  that  it  dwarfed 
all  sentiment  of  a  personal  nature.  It  aspired  to  meet 
the  keen  intellect  of  the  judge  in  the  freedom  of  debate. 

While  awaiting  an  answer  from  Judge  Northcote, 
Martin  exhausted  the  small  libraries  in  the  village, 
and  turned  to  the  Bible,  and  such  commentaries  as  he 
had,  for  proof  to  refute  the  strongest  and  most  popular 
argument — the  argument  that  slavery  was  divinely 
sanctioned. 

Mary  wrote  him  that  she  was  glad  to  hear  of  his 
intended  visit;  but  no  answer  came  from  Northcote. 
Several  days  went  by.  At  last,  the  postmaster  handed 
him  a  letter  and  winked  wisely  over  his  horn  spectacles 
at  the  loungers  about  him : 

"Have  to  write  to  yourself,  eh?"  the  postmaster  said. 
"  Well,  there's  postage  due  on  this  one." 

Martin  paid  the  postage,  thrust  the  letter  into  his 
pocket  and  hurried  home.  He  recognized  his  own 
message  to  Northcote;  the  superscription  marked  out 

237 


Martin    Brook 

with  a  single  stroke,  and  his  name  and  address  written 
in  the  judge's  firm,  fine  hand.  His  request  to  see  a 
dying  woman — little  mother — was  returned  unopened. 

In  the  first  bitterness  of  his  chagrin  he  rebelled  at 
this  added  insult.  He  blamed  the  unconscious  cause 
of  his  anger — Enoch — for  all  of  his  troubles,  and  flung 
aside  the  books  he  was  reading.  But  as  he  sat,  late 
into  the  night,  reviewing  cause  and  effect,  a  clearer 
vision  dawned  for  him.  Enoch  was,  after  all,  but  the 
visible  instrument;  the  motive  lay  still  deeper  and  was 
more  potent. 

Slavery,  and  slavery  alone,  as  an  abstract  and  im- 
personal institution,  was  accountable  for  all  this  suf- 
fering !  It  had  induced  the  conditions  which  had  led  up 
to  Enoch's  secret  sojourn  at  Elmhurst ;  and  to  his  own 
expulsion  from  home.  It  had  made  Enoch  a  skulker 
in  the  night,  and  he  himself  a  violator  of  the  law  in 
aiding  this  fleeing  slave  on  to  "God's  country."  It 
had  finally  brought  to  him  the  disgrace  of  this  returned 
letter — had  deprived  him  of  the  privilege  of  seeing  a 
d37ing  friend;  for,  in  the  mortification  of  the  refusal, 
he  lost  sight  of  the  real  purpose  of  his  request. 

The  individuality  of  slavery  was  brought  home  to 
him. 

If  slavery  could  so  affect  him  here,  in  this  far-awa}7 
place,  what  must  it  be  to  those  who  lived  under  its  im- 
mediate influence ! 

It  was  indeed  a  subject  to  be  studied — an  evil  to  be 
eradicated. 

Martin  resumed  his  self-imposed  task  more  earnestly, 
He  secured  a  leave  of  absence  from  his  pastorate  by 
effecting  an  exchange  of  pulpits  with  the  preacher  at 
Keeseville.  He  arranged  for  one  week's  visit,  but  his 
stay  there  was  prolonged  beyond  the  Sunday  provided 
for  at  the  start.  To  his  surprise,  as  he  proceeded  with 
his  work,  he  found  a  fund  of  information  that  required 

238 


Martin  Brook 

more  painstaking  research  than  even  a  fortnight  could 
compass.  Lawyers  permitted  him  to  read  their  books, 
while  in  the  libraries  of  the  principal  citizens,  he  dis- 
covered essays  and  opinions  that  opened  to  him  a  vast 
field  for  thought.  And  all  this  was  done  without  ex- 
planation of  his  real  purpose;  but  at  the  conclusion  of 
his  labors,  he  was  conscious  of  one  serious  deficiency — 
a  lack  of  argument  by  the  anti-slavery  people  to  the 
specific  end.  He  had  obtained  historical  and  legal 
data,  but  not  the  statements  in  opposition.  He  knew 
that  such  a  presentment  did  exist,  for  he  had  seen  it  at 
Elmhurst,  but  he  was  unable  to  find  it  here. 

He  had  called  on  Mary  at  her  uncle's  house;  but  in 
his  absorption  in  the  theme  of  slavery,  he  still  remained 
outside  of  the  area  of  her  personality.  She  pleased 
him,  yet  did  not  awaken  a  sentiment  beyond  an  inde- 
finable appreciation  of  her  restful  presence. 

He  realized  that  there  were  bonds  of  sympathy  be- 
tween them — ties  that  bound  them  alike  to  an  interest 
in  Sandy  Hill.  He  found  that  it  was  impossible  to 
loosen  the  hold  the  child-heart  had  taken  on  the  en- 
vironment of  those  first  years  of  their  acquaintance; 
and  the  most  curious  phase  of  this  psychological  con- 
dition was  that  the  incidents,  like  the  childish  minds 
that  noted  them  in  those  early  days,  though  trivial  and 
unessential,  preserved  their  relative  proportions  to 
subsequent  events.  They  seemed  important  then; 
they  remained  humorously  important  now. 

"  When  we  cease  to  be  children,  we  may  put  aside 
childish  things,"  Martin  said,  "  but  we  cannot  put  away 
the  memory  of  them  or  the  association  of  ideas." 

After  these  many  years — years  that  had  brought 
vital  changes  to  him,  with  agonizings  and  trials  that 
lifted  him  to  the  plane  of  spiritual  adviser  to  hundreds ; 
years  that  had  brought  to  her  the  great  change  wrought 
by  her  father's  death — the  first  subject  spoken  of  in 

239 


Martin    Brook 

confidence  between  them  was  suggested,  not  b}T  his  great 
work,  but  by  a  big  yellow  cat  lying  on  the  hearth- 
rug. 

"Why,  he  looks  like  my  old  Yellow  Fellow,  Mary/' 
Martin  said.  "Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to 
dress  him  up  in  cap  and  ruffles,  and  how  the  dogs 
frightened  him  into  the  tree  the  first  time  1  saw 
you? 

The  tension  of  emotion  was  instantly  relieved.  "  And 
you  played  with  him  like  a  baby.  How  much  Mrs. 
Wright  used  to  think  of  that  cat!  Those  were  great 
days,  if  we  had  only  known  how  to  enjoy  them.  You 
used  to  come  to  Elmhurst  almost  every  day.  And 
do  you  remember  Mrs.  Coulter's  big  white  rabbits! 
How  1  envied  her!  1  never  could  get  Eph  to  tolerate 
rabbits.  Do  3Tou  remember  Zeus  and  Juno?  How 
you  used  to  try  to  hitch  them  up  and  they  wouldn't 
go  together — they  were  so  full  of  life?" 

Mary  smiled.  "Yes,  Mr.  Coulter  is  a  Doctor  of 
Divinity  now.  He  is  rector  of  a  church  in  Albany. 
Mrs.  Coulter  came  into  a  very  large  inheritance  from 
her  father.     1  don't  think  she  cares  for  rabbits. " 

"I  have  lost  track  of  Eph  Larrabee  entirely,"  Martin 
said,  scarcely  heeding  the  news  of  the  Coulters.  "In 
fact,  1  fear  that  my  wandering  duties  have  made  me 
somewhat  forgetful  of  most  of  my  old  friends."  He 
sighed — he  had  a  way  of  sighing,  as  though  the  world 
rested  on  his  shoulders  and  squeezed  the  breath  out  of 
him. 

Mary  looked  at  him,  with  a  fleeting  glance  of  inquiry 
and  concern.  "Aren't  you  well,  Martin?  You  sigh 
as  if—" 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing,"  he  said,  half  humorously. 
"  That  is  what  a  clever  woman  once  called  my  '  minis- 
terial proclamation.'  And,  do  you  know,  1  am  always 
afraid  of  a  clever  woman.     Such  a  person  provokes 

240 


Martin    Brook 

me  to  levity ;  and  my  two  besetting  sins  are  the  extremes 
of  levity  and  despondency/' 

"Father  would  have  called  that  an  expression  of 
nervous  overtax — in  a  woman/'  she  added,  quickly. 
"  You  always  were  too  strongly  emotional — " 

"Don't  say  that,  Mary!"  lifting  his  hand.  "If  you 
knew  how  I  have  fought  emotionalism  you  wouldn't 
charge  me  with  so  complete  a  failure."  He  moved 
around  the  room  with  hands  clasped  behind  him. 
''  Your  father  did  not  suffer  long  nor  severely?" 

"No."  The  light  of  love  softened  her  eyes.  "He 
fell  asleep,  after  a  hard  day's  ride  and  a  trying  case, 
as  he  lay  on  the  sitting-room  couch,  while  I  was  reading 
to  him." 

A  silence  came  upon  them  like  the  hush  of  those  who 
listen  for  a  welcome  voice. 

The  work  Martin  was  now  doing  took  him,  for  the 
first  time  since  entering  the  church,  among  men  of  the 
world  not  his  own  religionists.  He  began  to  see  affairs 
from  a  wider  point  of  view. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  the  Thursday  evening  of  the  second 
week,  "  I  never  missed  the  opportunities  of  Elmhurst  as 
1  do  at  this  moment.  1  didn't  know  the  value  of  that 
library,  while  I  had  access  to  it.  If  1  could  be  there 
now,  1  would  make  better  use  of  it.  The  more  1  think 
of  what  1  gave  up  in  leaving  that  place,  the  vaster  the 
sacrifice  seems  to  me." 

"  It  was  a  sacrifice,  Martin,  in  the  truest  sense.  You 
gave  up  everything  to  God,"  she  said,  calmly.  "Do 
you  regret  that  act?" 

Martin  colored  under  her  steady  gaze.  He  had  not 
used  the  term  as  she  construed  it  in  her  high  conception 
of  his  motive.  He  perceived  that  she  had  idealized 
him,  and  he  despised  and  rejected  the  moral  cowardice 
of  allowing  her  to  believe  him  worthy  of  this  great  praise. 
Q  241 


Martin    Brook 

But  he  faced  the  unexpected  ordeal  with  the  courage  of 
true  sacrifice — the  possible  loss  of  her  esteem. 

"I  don't  deserve  3'our  good  opinion  of  me,  Mary/' 
he  said,  "  and  1  am  glad  you  uttered  a  half-doubt.  That 
makes  it  easier  for  me  to  speak  as  1  must.  I  do  not 
regret  entering  the  ministry.  I  can  say  that  much  in 
all  sincerity;  but  3Tou  misunderstand  the  immediate 
cause  of  my  first  awakening." 

"  It  was  the  change  in  your  prospects  caused  by  your 
defence  of  a  helpless  man  that  made  you  take  up  the 
ministry/'  she  said,  stoutly. 

"Indirectly,  yes;  but  not  directly.  I  did  not  give  up 
those  prospects  with  a  thought  of  the  Methodist  minis- 
try in  my  mind.  I  was  moved  to  act  from  emotion  at 
first,  and  later  on  b\T  a  rational  conviction  of  a  principle 
I  could  not  solve.  Besides,  I  fancied  then  that  the  world 
was  open  to  me.  It  was  not  until  I  was  impressed 
by  adverse  conditions  that  I  decided  to  become  a  preach- 
er." He  stood  before  her,  with  his  hand  extended  in 
a  pleading  gesture. 

"God's  ways  are  strange.  They  lead  us  through 
adversity  to  the  right  path,"  she  remarked. 

"Oh,  you  blessed  friend!"  he  said,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  "You  give  me  a  new  thought."  Then,  after 
a  moment's  pause:  "Perhaps  I  am  being  led  now," 
he  said.  "Surely  the  wa3r  is  rough."  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  several  times  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  What  is  it,  Martin?"  she  said,  softly. 

"You  still  have  faith  in  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  but  her  own  heart's  plea,  because  of 
her  love  for  him,  caused  her  to  seem  reserved  and  cold. 

He  paused  before  her  a  moment,  hesitated  in  his  speech 
and  turned  awa3T,  with  a  feeling  that  she  had  repelled 
him.  When  he  approached  her  again  he  said  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone:    "The  regret  I  feel  is  in  losing 

242 


Martin    Brook 

the  opportunity  to  use  Judge  Northcote's  library.  I 
went  out  from  that  place,  it  is  true,  because  of  the  con- 
dition of  Enoch  and  his  race — let  us  call  that  the  unseen 
ruling  principle.  To-day  I  am  crippled  in  my  capacity 
to  do  for  him  as  I  would  by  a  lack  of  a  certain  form  of 
information  contained  in  that  library,  which  is  difficult 
to  obtain.  I  know  it  is  there;  but  in  those  days  I  did 
not  comprehend  its  meaning.  1  have  in  this  way 
lessened  my  power  to  help  Enoch's  race." 

"Lessened  your  power?  No;  your  power  is  within 
yourself — the  loss  is  transient  opportunity,  and  can 
be  remedied/'  she  said. 

"It  was  like  a  soldier  breaking  his  sword  on  the 
altar  of  Mars — a  devotional  action,  but  a  disarmament 
of  himself/'  he  exclaimed,  "although  I  cannot  justify 
myself  with  the  consolation  of  intentional  virtue;  for, 
although  I  am  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  now,  I  first 
hoped  to  become  a  lawyer — a  man  like  Judge  Northcote, 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  law,  but  a  more  just  applica- 
tion of  its  spirit.  I  failed  to  gain  a  place  at  the  bar, 
and  was  obliged  to  accept  the  pulpit  as  my  field.  Now, 
however,  I  lack  the  materials  for  information  which 
Northcote  has  at  Elmhurst. "     He  spoke  almost  bitterly. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  judge — " 

"  Go  to  him?  Go  after  he  sent  back  my—"  He  check- 
ed himself. 

"Yes?"  Mary  prompted. 

"  Why,  1  wrote  the  judge,  asking  permission  to  visit 
Mrs.  Wright.  Your  letter  telling  of  her  illness—" 
He  broke  down;  his  point  was  weakly  taken,  and  he 
saw  it.  Mary  seemed  able  to  search  his  very  soul  with 
those  calm  eyes. 

"You  wrote  to  the  judge,"  she  said,  "with  a  secret 
motive?  Wasn't  this  done  after  you  admitted  to  your- 
self the  need  of  the  library?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile 
of  gentle  reproof. 

243 


Martin    Brook 

"Yes,"  Martin  admitted,  sitting  b}r  the  fireplace. 
"  You  are  right.  I  had  been  debating  the  need  of  more 
materials  for  study  before  1  wrote  him.  But  my  punish- 
ment was  as  great  as  nry  motive  was  unconsciously 
mean.  And,  besides,  even  you  will  concede  that  I  do 
love  little  mother/' 

"Why  didn't  you  go  boldly  to  Elmhurst,  and  speak 
in  the  name  of  love  ?  If  that  had  been  }Tour  only  motive — 
no  other  thought  behind  it,  even  a  selfish  desire  to  do 
good — you  wouldn't  have  written.  You  would  have 
gone.  Love's  first  thought  is  to  fly  to  the  one  beloved 
where  there  is  a  call." 

"Mary,"  Martin  said,  earnestly,  "I  wish  I  had  your 
power  of  self -analysis,  and  your  moral  courage  in  acting 
for  the  right." 

"You  have  something  more  valuable  than  anything 
I  possess.  You  are  a  man — you  can  act;  I  am  only  a 
woman."  She  smiled  sadly,  and  checked  him  in  an 
impulsive  speech  she  saw  he  was  about  to  utter.  "  No. 
The  chief  trouble  with  you  lies  in  your  introspection 
and  supersensitiveness.  You  have  aggressiveness,  and 
yet  you  shrink  from  a  blow ;  you  have  perception,  but 
3tou  do  not  always  observe  proportions.  You  do  not 
lack  moral  courage.  Pardon  me  if  I  offend  you  by 
saying  that  you  have  too  much  egotism." 

He  frowned. 

"I  see  that  I  have  offended  you,  Martin.  Believe 
me,  I  did  not  intend  to  hurt  you ;  but  you  stand  in  your 
own  light.  It  would  be  better  for  you  if  you  had  some 
of  Mr.  Chichester's  characteristics." 

"Mary!"  Martin  said,  reprovingly,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  That  man  is  a  worldly  person— he  is  not  a  professor 
of  religion.     He  spoke  to  me  of  you  in  a  manner — " 

"Please  don't  mistake  my  meaning.  Sit  down." 
Martin  obeyed  her.  "Mr.  Chichester  is  not  religious, 
but  he  is  a  good  man.     Sometimes  I  think  we  overvalue 

244 


Martin    Brook 

religious  professions — and  undervalue  the  true  morality 
of  men. 

"  You  appear  to  know  him.  I  do  not/ '  he  said,  grave- 
ly. "  There  is  a  vast  difference  between  morality  and 
religious  integrity." 

"I  have  met  him  only  a  few  times,  but  I  can  read 
character/'  she  said,  avoiding  discussion.  "Tell  me 
more  of  your  interview  with  him.  Let  us  speak  of 
facts/' 

Martin  rose  once  more  and  moved  about  uneasily. 

"He  succeeded  in  unsettling  me  most  effectually, 
for  one  thing.  I  am  here  now  trying  to  reach  some 
conclusion  on  a  question  he  raised." 

"A  religious  question?  That  can  scarcely  be/'  she 
said,  smiling.  "  You  have  not  told  me  the  nature  of 
your  studies  here.  I  am  not  intrusive,  but  cannot  I 
help  you?" 

"  No — and  yes.  It  is  an  ethical  question  rather  than 
religious.  It  impinges  on  our  ideas  of  morality.  In 
fact,  it  is  the  question  of  slavery." 

"  Indeed!     Why  haven't  you  done  this  sooner?" 

"  My  duty  seemed  to  be  to  the  Church.  I  own  now 
that  I  have  mistaken  my  duty  to  my  country  and  to 
God." 

"You  know  my  father  made  that  question  a  study." 

"I  wish  he  were  here  how,"  Martin  declared.  "He 
could  help  me." 

"  Why,  I  have  all  his  books  and  papers.     I  have—" 

"What!     Here?"  Martin  asked,  quickly. 

"Yes.  And  since  his  death,  knowing  how  high- 
ly he  prized  them,  I  have  arranged  them  carefully. 
They  cover  the  subject  fully.  Would  you  like  to  see 
them?" 

"Indeed  I  would,  for  they  are  probably  the  very 
documents  I  have  been  trying  to  find — the  ones  I  alluded 
to  as  being  at  Elmhurst.     I  thought  I  should  have  to 

245 


Martin    Brook 

go  to  Troy  or  Albany  for  them.  Let  me  go  through 
them  here  with  3Tou,"  he  suggested. 

"  If  }Tou  wish  to — yes,"  she  said,  and  went  to  her  room 
to  get  the  papers.  On  her  return  she  remarked,  "  I 
ma}7  be  able  to  assist  you.  It  was  fortunate  you  men- 
tioned the  matter.' ' 

"  But  I  didn't  do  it,  Mary/'  he  said,  impulsively. 
"  It  was  you  who  brought  the  subject  up.  It  is  alwa}Ts 
you  who  do  the  right  thing — the  helpful  thing — " 

"  When  I  call  you  egotistic,  and  offend  you?" 

"I  wish  you'd  call  me  a  fool,  Mary!  I  believe  you 
could  do  even  that  and  make  it  sound  like  praise," 
he  said,  hurriedly  examining  the  package. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  praise  or  to- blame,"  she  said, 
watching  his  eager  face  as  he  bent  over  the  papers. 
"I  try  to  do  some  little  kindly  acts  as  I  go  on,  but 
if  you  only  knew — "  She  turned  her  face  away;  he 
was  not  thinking  of  her.  The  broken  sentence  at  last 
reached  his  consciousness,  with  a  literal  purport — he 
was  seeking  knowledge. 

"If  I  only  knew — what,  Mary?"  he  asked,  glancing 
up,  his  mind  absorbed  in  the  new  discovery. 

"How  glad  I  shall  be  to  assist  you  in  going  over 
father's  papers!"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 


Chapter  VI 

The  most  casual  reading  of  Dr.  Whittaker's  papers 
convinced  Martin  that  here,  under  his  hand,  lay  the 
material  required  to  complete  his  investigations.  The 
ethical  and  historical  aspects  of  the  question  of  Amer- 
ican slavery  were  here  presented,  from  the  view-point 
of  an  American  abolitionist. 

"  There  is  too  much  data  here  to  permit  of  our  going 
through  it  to-night/'  Martin  said.  "  To-morrow  morn- 
ing— " 

"To-morrow  is  a  school-day/'  Mary  said.  "But  in 
the  evening  and  Saturday  I  shall  have  leisure." 

"May J  take  the  papers  to  the  inn?  I'll  be  careful 
of  them."     He  tied  them  up  and  said  good-night. 

She  lighted  him  along  the  dark  hall  and  held  the 
candle  high  as  he  went  down  the  stoop.  "Be  careful 
on  that  step— don't  fall,  Martin.     Good-night. " 

In  the  morning  he  met  her  as  she  was  coming  out 
of  her  uncle's  yard  on  her  way  to  school.  Her  plain 
black  dress,  her  simple  black  bonnet  tied  under  her 
chin  with  black  ribbons,  made  her  slender  figure  seem 
more  delicate  than  ever. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I  have  spent  the  night  reading 
those  papers  and  am  trying  to  quiet  my  brain  with  a 
breath  of  this  clear  air.     May  I  walk  with  you  ?" 

As  they  moved  along  the  street,  she  noticed  the  look 
of  curiosity  on  the  faces  of  those  village  people  they 
chanced  to  pass,  and  who  turned  to  watch  the  enthu- 
siastic stranger. 

247 


Martin    Brook 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  timidly. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  woman  as  you,  Mary.  You've  left 
nothing  for  me  to  do.    You've  classified  those  records — " 

He  spoke  louder  than  he  realized.  She  interposed 
quietly,  for  the  school-children  were,  as  usual,  running 
to  meet  her,  and  were  showing  their  surprise  at  the  sight 
of  this  man  with  the  teacher.  "I'm  glad  my  work 
hasn't  been  wasted.  Let  us  leave  the  matter  until  we 
meet  to-night." 

"Yes,  I'll  be  at  the  house  earty,"  he  said,  swinging 
away,  with  uplifted  hat. 

That  evening  he  was  promptly  at  Mary's  house. 

"  I  have  found  a  new  meaning  in  Blackstone's  defi- 
nition of  moral  law,"  he  said,  plunging  at  once  into  the 
subject.  "At  one  time,  under  Northcote's  interpreta- 
tion, I  thought  I  comprehended  his  words,  but  last 
night's  study  throws  a  new  light  on  them.  And 
Priestlej^'s  apothegm :  '  No  people  were  ever  yet  found 
who  were  better  than  their  laws,  though  many  have 
been  known  to  be  worse,'  is  the  key  to  the  mystery. 
I  was  brought  up  to  revere  the  law.  That  was  Judge 
Northcote's  constant  lesson.  He  used  to  sa}T  that  a 
refusal  to  accept  established  laws  was  emotional  rev- 
olution. I  think  now  that  revolution  is  but  an  evi- 
dence of  man's  growth  into  higher  laws." 

"Fairer  laws  will  be  enacted  as  they  are  needed," 
she  remarked. 

"  No,  pardon  me.  The  need  comes  first ;  and  the 
first  need  is  a  clearer  understanding  of  the  divine  law. 
The  claim  is  made  that  the  Bible  sanctions  slavery; 
and  I,  as  a  preacher,  am  justified  in  taking  a  so-called 
political  subject  into  the  pulpit  in  refutation  of  that 
falsehood.  That  is  a  point  on  which  I  and  nry  people 
clash.  When  politicians  invade  my  sphere  with  error, 
to  further  their  selfish  ends,  I  have  a  right  to  refute 
their  assertions." 

248 


Martin    Brook 

"Do  not  ever  be  afraid  of  men's  opinions,  Martin. 
I  am  surprised  that  you  have  waited  so  long." 

"Yes,  I  deserve  that  rebuke/'  he  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  But  this  is  something  that  touches  every  side  of  my 
life.  I  can  foresee  the  result.  This  proposed  action 
dooms  me  to  unpopularity  and — and  poverty ;  and  sets 
me  apart  from  men  of  affairs,  whose  favor  is  necessary 
to  insure  a  call  to  the  larger  appointments  in  the  Con- 
ference. But  it  is  not  that  result  that  I  shrink  from. 
I  shall  be  kept  in  loneliness.  My  life  is  very  lonely. 
I  can't  help  feeling  this  human  weakness,  even  when  I 
concede  the  call  to  a  great  duty." 

"You  are  not  yet  committed  to  the  cause,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  My  conscience  commits  me  to  it. "  He 
looked  soberly  into  the  fire.  "  When  I  was  a  little  boy 
I  used  to  wonder  what  my  mother  meant  by  my  lack 
of  'the  acquisitive'  and  'the  home  -  building  quality/ 
I  understand  her  meaning  now.  'My  fate  cries  out'; 
but  it  is  hard  to  become  like  the  Nemean  lion,  when 
the  heart  is  lonely ;  and  this  task  imposes  the  effects  of 
going  counter  to  current  opinion.  I  am  doing  this 
now  not  as  I  did  it  then,  when  I  left  Elmhurst.  This 
is  not  impulsive,  or  vague,  or  untried.  My  intellect, 
not  my  heart  alone,  impels  me." 

"Martin,"  she  said,  "don't  you  know  that  cheer- 
fulness makes  the  burdens  of  life  seem  lighter — that 
it  is  cheerful  acceptance  of  duty,  not  resignation, 
God  requires  of  us?  You  retard  your  own  progress 
by  taking  a  gloomy  view  of  life.  Worldly  wealth  is 
not  the  highest  success." 

"  No ;  but  wealth  may  be  used  as  a  means  to  a  good 
end.  It  seems  to  be  the  will  of  God  that  I  shall  be  a 
solitary  man.  I  see  my  line  of  duty ;  but  I  sometimes 
feel  as  if  I  could  not  go  on  in  it  alone — without  aid  in 
the  work,  Mary.     Will  you  help  me?    May  I  write  to 

249 


Martin    Brook 

you  frequently,  and  will  you  be  frank  in  your  sugges- 
tions?" 

"  Yes,  willingly/'  she  said ;  but  her  heart  cried  silently  : 
"Oh,  if  I  could  always  help  him!  If  he  only  knew 
that  I  love  him — if  he  only  loved  me — poverty  would 
seem  no  barrier  |" 

He  rose  to  say  good-bye.  "  This  has  been  a  'pleasant 
and  beneficial  visit,  Mary.  I  will  fight  my  tendency 
to  melancholy.  You  have  given  me  strength  to  endure 
the  seclusion  of  my  petty  life  at  Shelburne.  Good- 
D37e  for  a  time,  and  God  bless  you!" 

"Good -night,"  she  said;  and  the  memory  of  her 
voice  and  the  look  on  her  face  lingered  long  with  him — 
long  after  his  return  to  the  little  room  in  Mrs.  Dalton's 
cottage,  where,  in  the  solitude,  the  grim  fact  of  Ameri- 
can slavery  confronted  him. 

Slavery  was  no  longer  a  theory  —  a  speculative 
idea  like  that  of  salvation,  holding  no  solution  except 
in  a  mind  made  ethereal  through  religious  ecstasy. 
It  became  a  reality,  in  the  realm  of  the  demonstrable. 
As  a  commercial  error,  Martin  easily  reduced  it  to  a 
mathematical  certainty,  and  to  his  philosophic  mind 
the  question  held  great  possibilities,  because  the  propo- 
sition that  slavery  was  a  divinely  ordained  institution 
demanded  a  clearer  understanding  of  Scriptural  utter- 
ances. 

A  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Hebrew  must  be  relied 
upon  by  him  to  determine  which  was  truth  or  error. 
This  fact  he  soon  discovered,  when  he  once  more  took 
up  the  original  text  of  the  Bible  and  worked  out  its 
meaning,  with  no  assistance  except  an  occasional  letter 
to  some  of  the  few  scholars  in  the  Church.  There 
were  few,  indeed,  who  were  disposed  to  aid  him;  and 
at  times  he  grew  disheartened,  as  he  became  con- 
vinced that  his  attitude,  so  at  variance  with  public 
sentiment,  must  be  sustained  beyond  the  shadow  of 

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Martin    Brook 

a  doubt — must  be  made  positive  enough  to  encounter 
the  most  scholarly  opposition  —  or  his  work  would 
utterly  fail. 

But  in  those  darkest  hours  there  was  sure  to  come 
a  message  from  Mary.  Blessed  friend!  He  rose 
from  the  reading  of  her  letters  as  from  his  knees  before 
the  Almighty — without  division  of  his  love  for  God, 
purified  as  by  the  truth  made  manifest.  They  were 
always  a  combination  of  uplifting  exhortation  and 
current  news.  From  her  he  learned  of  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Wright ;  "  little  mother  "  had  passed  into  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  Infinite. 

The  summer  passed  before  Martin  had  finished  the 
first  section  of  his  studies  of  this  inexhaustible  theme. 
Winter  came  howling  down  upon  the  region.  The  lake 
was  covered  with  ice,  and  men  were  crossing  it  in  sledges. 

Hard  work  was  beginning  to  show  its  effects  on  his 
spirits,  in  spite  of  his  vigorous  out  -  door  habits.  He 
felt  the  lack  of  human  sympathy.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  village  to  whom  he  could  go  for  companionship, 
or  with  whom  he  could  discuss  his  theories.  His 
mind  grew  cloudy  with  doubts. 

But  in  the  silence  he  heard  the  voice  of  Mary,  urging 
him  to  cheerfulness. 

With  this  encouragement  sounding  in  his  ears,  and 
without  asking  leave  of  absence,  or  telling  any  one 
of  his  purpose,  he  bundled  himself  in  a  sleigh,  with  a 
big  wolf-skin  coat  wrapped  about  him,  in  a  mass  of 
buff  alo  -  robes,  and  started  across  the  lake.  Ice  and 
snow  and  wind — the  bufferings  of  the  wintry  storm — 
were  no  barriers  to  the  progress  of  his  intention. 

He  found  Mary — placid  and  serene — by  the  com- 
forting fireside  of  the  little  home  in  Keeseville.  The 
welcome  he  received  scattered  the  gloom  from  his  heart 
and  filled  his  soul  with  peace. 

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Martin    Brook 

Still,  there  were  moments,  as  he  explained  his  work, 
when  Mary's  kindly  criticism  cut  deep  into  his  egotism ; 
yet,  line  by  line,  statement  by  statement,  they  reviewed 
his  task;  modifying  it  here,  intensifying  there,  in  true 
perspective ;  until  at  last  he  saw  the  value  of  proportions. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  standing  admiringly  before  her, 
"you  amaze  me." 

"Martin,  you  are  not  doing  this  for  the  score  or  two 
of  listeners  in  the  little  church  at  Shelburne,"  she  said, 
a  deeper  color  coming  into  her  face.  "You  are  pre- 
paring the  way  for  a  wider  congregation — the  world. 
It  is  a  vital  moment  for  you.  Once  taken,  the  step  is 
irrevocable.  You  will  be  assailed  not  only  by  your 
immediate  hearers,  but  by  the  press  and  the  pro-slavery 
advocates  in  the  North — by  the  powerful  majority. 
You  must  make  your  position  impregnable.  Have  you 
thought  of  all  this,  Martin?" 

"Yes;  and  I  have  thought  of  more  than  this  —  of 
its  meaning  in  a  more  personal  way,"  he  said,  sadly, 
lapsing  into  the  inevitable  condition  of  mind  that  Mary 
so  deplored. 

In  the  glow  of  the  flaring  fire  and  the  yellow  candle- 
light, Mary  seemed  slight  and  frail,  compared  with 
Martin's  sturdy  form,  as  he  sat  down  and  fell  to  studj7- 
ing  her.  He  could  not  say  that  she  was  beautiful; 
her  charm  lay  in  a  serenity  of  spirit  that  enveloped  her. 
She  bore  a  close  resemblance  to  her  father,  in  the  broad 
white  forehead,  and  the  full  mouth,  with  its  strong 
line  of  chin.  Her  well-rounded  cheeks,  at  times  like 
this  slightly  tinged  with  color,  showed  the  intellectual 
pallor  when  in  repose.  Her  dark  brown  hair,  thick 
and  long,  with  a  tendency  to  waviness  carefully  re- 
pressed, was  brushed  smoothly  down  over  her  ears 
and  coiled  in  a  knot  above  the  firm,  white  neck.  Her 
eyes,  he  mused,  were  the  glory  of  her  face — large, 
widely  set,  under  arched  brows — a  true  hazel,  that  held 

252 


Martin    Brook 

the  light ;  now  almost  blue,  with  brown  flecks  on  the 
iris;  now  intensely  black,  as  they  revealed  the  force 
of  feeling  held  in  check  by  will  and  judgment.  Her 
hands  were  small,  wide  in  the  palm,  and  soft  of  texture ; 
her  feet  small  and  high-arched.  About  her  was  the 
atmosphere  of  spiritual  exaltation. 

"Can  you  add  one  more  word  of  encouragement, 
Mary?"  Martin  said,  breaking  the  silence.  "Can  you 
say  that  you  believe  I  am  sincere?" 

"I  believe  you  are  sincere,  Martin;  but  no  matter 
what  I  may  think,  you  are  the  one  to  say  what  your 
motive  is,  and  whether  or  not  you  have  the  moral  cour- 
age to  face  the  hosts  you  are  now  engaging." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  must  weigh  my  own  purpose- 
If  I  deliver  that  address  in  a  pulpit,  I  am  forever  com- 
mitted to  the  cause  of  human  freedom.  That  means 
a  minority  fight  with  the  greatest  political  power  ever 
known  in  this  nation.  We  are  in  the  midst  of  a  stu- 
pendous conflict.  The  action  of  our  General  Confer- 
ence ten  years  ago,  in  choosing  a  slave-holder  to  rep- 
resent us  in  the  British  Conference,  confirms  the  pro- 
slavery  sentiment  in  our  Church.  I  can't  look  for 
official  approval ;  and  the  country  is  in  a  state  of  agita- 
tion and  depression.  I  am  positive  that  the  advocacy 
of  anti-slavery  doctrines  now  will  make  me  a  target 
for  the  leading  political  party." 

"  You  are  right.  Think  well,  Martin.  Are  you 
convinced  that  God  calls  you  to  this  personal  sacrifice?" 
she  asked,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  turned 
up  to  his. 

"I  am  convinced  of  it,"  he  said,  rising  and  lifting 
his  head  high  as  he  walked  the  floor. 

"Shall  you  carry  the  issue  of  political  parties  into 
this  discussion?"  her  eyes  now  turned  towards  the 
fire. 

"  No,"  he  said,  pausing  in  his  walk. 

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Martin    Brook 

"Then  you  will  speak  only  on  the  moral  wrong  of 
slavery?'' 

"That  is  the  beginning.  The  Biblical  and  social 
phases  of  it/'  he  explained,  resuming  his  walk  more 
slowly. 

"  I  shall  pray  for  the  success  of  your  cause/' 

"And  for  me?"  he  asked,  coming  quickly  to  her. 

"Yes/'  she  said,  without  turning  her  face  towards 
him. 

"Mary,"  he  pleaded,  "I  cannot  go  on  without  your 
help.  This  truth  grows  more  evident  to  me.  You  do 
not  know  how  much  you  are  to  me.  If  I  were  rich — " 
he  ceased  speaking. 

She  still  looked  straight  into  the  fire,  making  no  repty. 

"You  know  my  life,"  he  went  on,  with  a  sweeping 
gesture  of  both  hands  downward.  "  You  know  the 
secret  of  my  heart.  I  thought  I  loved  a  woman."  He 
paused  an  instant,  clasped  his  hands  before  him,  and 
resumed.  "  That  love  divided  me  from  God,  and  I 
was  made  to  go  through  the  deep  waters  of  anguish." 
He  walked  once  across  the  room,  and  then  stood  close 
to  her.  "I  have  found  much  more  than  appears  on 
these  pages  during  our  evenings  here.  I  have  found 
the  truth  through  your  eyes.  But  I  am  poor,  and 
the  future  looks  dark;  God  alone  knows  the  outcome 
of  this  new  work.  In  the  face  of  all  these  conditions, 
which  you  understand  as  well  as  I  do,  can  }7ou  love  me, 
Mary?"  He  held  out  his  hands.  "I  love  you,  and 
because  of  that  love,  I  hesitate  to  ask  you  to  share  the 
life  that  must  be  mine." 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  now  deepest  black,  and  looked 
thoughtfully  into  his.  "Do  you  truly  believe  I  could 
be  helpful  to  you?"  she  asked. 

"  The  truest  helper,  next  to  our  God." 

She  rose  and  laid  her  hands  in  his.  He  took  her 
gently  in  his  arms. 

254 


Martin    Brook 

"  You  won't  weary  of  me?" 

"Weary  of  you?  Weary  of  you,  dear  heart?  I 
could  as  soon  think  of  wearying  of  prayer.  With  all 
reverence  I  say  this,  for  you  are  my  earthly  strength. 
It  seems  so  selfish,  Mary,  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife, 
but  I  love  you,  with  a  love  that  calls  for  you." 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"  I  have  always  loved  you,  Martin!" 

He  lifted  her  face  between  his  hands  and  looked  into 
her  eyes.  "Always?"  he  asked,  the  light  breaking 
in  on  him  with  a  sudden  pang. 

"Always,"  she  answered,  softly. 


Chapter  VII 


MARTIN  went  back  to  Shelburne  nerved  to  his  great 
endeavor. 

Mary  and  he  chose  the  day  and  hour  for  the  delivery 
of  his  first  sermon  in  the  cause  of  human  freedom. 

"  I  shall  think  of  you,  dear  heart/'  she  said,  at  parting 
with  him,  "  and  I  will  be  there  in  spirit." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  don't  shrink  from  what  will 
result  to  me  in  this  duty,  but  only  from  what  must  come 
to  you.  Are  you  sure,  Mary,  you  understand?  I  will 
release  5^ou — I'll  go  on,  now  that  I  know  you  love  me — " 

"I  understand,  Martin,"  she  said,  and  kissed  him. 

And  urged  on  by  this  conception  of  duty,  and  Mary's 
love,  Martin  faced  a  norther  as  he  tramped  through 
the  snow-drifts  towards  the  little  church,  that  fateful 
Sunday  morning. 

He  entered  the  vestibule  and  shook  the  snow  from 
his  cloak.    He  overheard  one  good  sister  say  to  another : 

"  Well,  I  expect  I  hadn't  orter  tried  to  come  out  such 
a  day  as  this,  with  my  rheumatism  and  all." 

"No,  'taint  likely  you'll  get  paid  for  it,  'ceptin'  in 
aches." 

The  words  chilled  him. 

The  small  groups  about  the  red-hot  stoves,  in  the 
lower  corners  of  the  bleak  church,  made  way  for  him  to 
come  nearer  the  fire. 

"  Better  git  warm  first,"  a  leading  member  advised. 

"Thank  you," Martin  replied,  absently,  and  went  on 
up  the  main  aisle  to  the  pulpit. 

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Martin    Brook 

"He  seems  kinder  put  out  about  sumpthin',"  a  sister 
whispered. 

"Well,  this  weather's  enough  to  make  anybody  feel 
put  out.     My  feet's  like  ice. " 

Martin  looked  at  his  open-faced  silver  watch.  It 
lacked  some  minutes  of  meeting-time.  He  sat  down 
on  the  cold  hair-cloth  pulpit  sofa  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  trying  to  forget  the  scene  about  him: 
the  whitewashed  walls,  the  plain  pews,  the  uncarpeted 
aisles,  the  frost-coated  windows. 

The  church-members  were  coming  in  by  twos  and 
threes,  noisily  stamping  the  snow  from  their  heavy 
boots  in  the  vestibule  and  gathering  about  the  stoves. 
Their  voices  were  repressed  to  penetrating  whispers. 

Martin  reached  forward,  took  the  hymn-book  from 
the  pulpit,  and  turned  the  leaves  with  benumbed  fingers. 
The  throbbing  of  fever  was  in  his  head,  the  chill  of 
death  in  his  hands  and  feet.  He  laid  the  book  back 
on  the  desk,  open  at  the  first  selection,  rubbed  his  hands 
together,  and  drew  the  Bible  down  on  his  knees  to  find 
the  place  of  his  text. 

Still  the  people  did  not  take  their  seats ;  they  lingered 
around  the  stoves,  casting  glances  at  the  preacher, 
in  resentment  of  his  implied  suggestion  that  it  was 
time  to  begin. 

A  new-comer  burst  into  the  church,  bringing  a  blast 
of  cold  wind  with  him.  He  rubbed  his  ears  and  spatted 
his  hands. 

"  Never  see  it  blow  much  harder,  comin'  over  the  hill  I" 
he  exclaimed,  aloud.  "Cold,  ain't  it?"  he  said  to  a 
deaf  old  woman. 

"Eh?"  she  replied.  "No,  thank  Gawd!  I  hain't 
had  none  so  far  this  year,  but  I  guess  I  shall  have, 
comin'  out  in  this  storm." 

A  boy  tittered  aloud. 

Some  of  the  leading  members  conferred  together. 
R  257 


Martin    Brook 

"I  guess  I'll  go  up  to  Brother  Brook  and  tell  him 
he'd  just  better  hold  a  prayer-meetin'  and  dismiss  us/' 
one  said.  The  words  reached  Martin's  sensitive  ears. 
He  had  expected  no  greeting  of  encouragement,  but, 
these  adverse  conditions,  imposed  by  unforeseen  events, 
were  more  than  he  could  long  withstand.  He  rose 
up  commandingly. 

"If  you  will  please  be  seated/'  he  said,  firmly,  "we 
will  begin  the  service  of  God  by  the  use  of  '  Coronation/  M 

The  people  grudgingly  obe3Ted  him,  made  a  feeble 
effort  at  the  tune,  a  halting  between  the  lines,  a  clumsy 
staggering  among  the  notes,  and  sat  down,  visibly  shiv- 
ering and  displeased. 

The  minister's  opening  prayer  was  heard  by  ears 
that  could  not  understand  his  desperate  appeal  for 
strength  to  carry  him  through  a  great  ordeal.  To 
them  it  was  but  an  allusion  to  the  storm  and  his  walk 
to  church.  But  Martin's  voice  was  lifted  above  the 
heads  of  ruminating  humanity  to  the  God  who  com- 
prehends the  mystery  of  His  own  strange  plan.  His 
final  words  of  invocation  were  lost  in  the  rattle  of  the 
sexton's  poker  and  the  slamming  of  the  iron  doors. 

Martin  arose  from  his  knees — not  before  this  com- 
pany, but  before  the  Lord,  the  light  of  sacrifice  in  his 
eyes.  He  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper :  "  M37  text  will  be 
found  in  Luke,  the  tenth  chapter,  verses  25  to  37." 

And  he  read  these  lines,  wherein  it  is  told  how  a  cer- 
tain lawyer,  seeking  to  tempt  the  Master,  asked,  "  What 
shall  I  do  to  inherit  eternal  life?"  and  the  Master's 
parable  of  the  good  Samaritan.  "Go,  and  do  thou 
likewise." 

Turning  then  to  St.  John,  he  read  more  fervently: 
" '  I  can  of  mine  own  self  do  nothing ;  as  I  hear,  I  judge  : 
and  my  judgment  is  just ;  but  I  seek  not  mine  own  will, 
but  the  will  of  the  Father  which  hath  sent  me. ' ' 

He  deliberately  spread  the  pages   of  the  Bible  at 

258 


Martin    Brook 

the  centre,  and  placed  a  written  sermon  upon  the  open 
volume.  He  was  not  restricted  to  the  manuscript.  Every 
paragraph  of  that  address  was  impressed  upon  his  mind. 

As  he  waited  for  some  late-comers  to  settle  them- 
selves, he  saw  that  he  was  destined  to  talk  to  inatten- 
tive ears — all  save  one:  the  leading  member  of  the 
society,  Zachariah  Griffin,  a  rich  man,  as  times  went, 
who  contributed  most  of  the  salary  fund,  a  Jacksonian 
Democrat  and  an  avowed  pro-slavery  man.  To  him 
alone,  therefore,  Martin  determined  to  speak,  as  to 
one  whose .  opinion  was  the  voice  of  the  Church — the 
voice  of  the  vast  majority. 

He  began  the  theme  with  a  general  statement  of 
abstract  truth  regarding  love  and  compassion;  we 
should  love  not  only  friends  and  acquaintances,  but 
strangers,  and  even  our  enemies. 

Then  came  the  application. 

"I  shall  apply  Christ's  parable/'  he  said,  "to  the 
subject  of  American  slavery." 

The  leading  member  brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk, 
his  brows  contracted  into  a  forbidding  arch,  his  mouth 
pursed  into  a  lipless  slit. 

Martin  had  gained  an  audience.  A  rustle  ran  over 
the  house.  Eyes  were  focused  on  the  grim  figure  in 
the  middle  pew.  There  was  an  electrical  vibration 
of  the  surcharged  air.     Martin  continued : 

"  I  shall  endeavor  to  show — 

"  First,  the  nature  of  American  slavery  ; 

"  Secondly,  that  it  is,  in  itself,  radically,  essentially 
wrong ; 

"Thirdly,  that  it  is  a  source  of  incalculable  evil,  both 
to  the  slaves  and  the  slave-holders ; 

"  Fourthly,  that  it  is  not,  and  never  was,  sanctioned 
by  the  Bible; 

"  Fifthly,  that  it  is  our  duty  to  use  every  laudable 
means  to  effect  its  removal." 

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Martin    Brook 

As  the  last  proposition  came  with  virile  force  from 
his  lips,  he  saw  Griffin  drop  back  into  a  slouching, 
defiant  attitude.     There  was  no  retreating  now. 

"In  Louisiana/'  Martin  said,  "slaves  are  both  real 
estate  and  goods;  in  South  Carolina,  chattels;  in  all 
slave  States  they  are  not  ranked  is  rational  beings, 
but  are  claimed,  held,  and  treated  as  Things,  deprived 
of  the  right  of  reason  and  conscience. 

"This  does  not  turn  upon  the  fact  of  ignorance  nor 
advancement  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  plane,  because  the 
child  remains  in  the  status  of  the  mother.  A  trace 
of  African  blood,  imperceptible  to  the  eye,  establishes 
the  slavery  of  the  being,  though  the  father  may  be  a 
white  man/' 

There  was  a  nutter  among  the  women.  This  subject 
wasn't  fit  for  young  folks  to  hear. 

"Such  a  law  is  radically  wrong/'  Martin  went  on. 
"No  man  can  be  the  property  of  another;  all  men  are 
equal,  not  in  attainments  or  condition,  but  in  essential 
rights.  Prope^  rights  are,  according  to  law,  exclusive. 
That  which  belongs  to  one  man  cannot  belong  to  another. 
A  man,  viewed  as  property,  does  not  belong  to  himself. 
This  is  fundamentally  false.  A  rational,  immortal 
being  cannot  be  property.  Stealing  does  not  bestow 
title;  slavery  is  based  on  man-stealing,  and,  therefore, 
is  essentially  wrong.  The  continuance  of  a  man  in 
slavery  is  the  incessant  repetition  of  crime." 

When  Martin  enunciated  these  premises,  he  attained 
to  that  mental  attitude  which  he  described  as  "  liberty 
of  speech."  His  voice  was  low,  distinct,  and  clear — the 
voice  of  Enoch  that  night  on  the  hili-side. 

For  two  hours  he  held  that  congregation  as  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  He  closed  the  Bible,  and  stepped 
to  the  edge  of  the  platform  for  greater  freedom.  He 
was  no  longer  pleading  with  a  national,  invisible  host  ; 
he  was  Martin  Brook,  the  man  among  a  few  hearers  in 

260 


Martin    Brook 

Shelburne.  His  face  was  pale,  and  he  wiped  the  per- 
spiration from  his  forehead. 

Zachariah  Griffin  half  rose  from  his  seat  in  anger, 
gasped,  snapped  his  teeth  on  the  quid  of  tobacco  in  his 
jaw,  and  sank  down  again. 

Martin  went  on:  "I  have  marked  the  progress  of 
this  cause  with  deep  solicitude.  For  a  long  time  I 
have  stood  in  the  attitude  of  painful  suspense.  But, 
after  having,  I  think,  carefully  examined  both  sides 
of  the  question,  and  deliberately  counted  the  cost,  I 
have  at  length,  with  firm,  unfaltering  step,  '  passed  the 
Rubicon/  It  is  said  that  abolitionists  are  schismatics, 
seeking  to  divide  the  Church.  This  is  not  true.  But 
the  latest  argument,  from  the  highest  councils,  is  that 
'Slavery  is  a  great  evil,  and  ought  to  be  abolished, 
but  the  disease  is  incurable,  and  it  is  too  late  to  apply 
a  remedy/  Would  Mr.  Wesley  have  said  this?  Is  sin 
so  deep-rooted  that  we  cannot  prevail  against  Satan? 
Is  God  dead? 

"No!  Our  Father  is  a  Living,  Eternal  God!  He 
commands  us  to  proceed,  in  all  the  meekness  and  gentle- 
ness of  Christ,  to  a  discussion  of  this  enormous  evil,  and 
to  overthrow  it,  as  we  should  and  must  its  twin  sister 
in  crime,  the  Rum  Power.  Let  us  send  our  supplica- 
tion to  His  gracious  ears.  And  is  there  one  in  this  as- 
sembly who  can  withhold  from  this  petition  his  hearty 
and  believing  Amen?" 

Martin  sank  down  on  the  sofa  behind  the  pulpit  and 
bowed  his  head  in  his  hands. 

Griffin  got  up,  his  lank  figure  trembling  with  sup- 
pressed rage.  His  high  cheek-bones,  his  deep-set  eyes, 
his  protruding  chin  were  each  accentuated  by  the  motion 
of  his  jaw  as  he  shifted  his  quid  of  tobacco.  He  walked 
sternly  to  the  red-hot  stove,  opened  the  door,  and  ejected 
a  shower  of  tobacco  juice  on  the  embers.  A  hissing, 
like  writhing  snakes,  sounded  in  the  room.     The  man 

261 


Martin    Brook 

cleared  his  throat  with  a  rasping,  prolonged  guttural, 
as  he  slowly  walked  back  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
altar  rail. 

"  I  got  sumpthin'  I  want  to  say/'  he  began,  deliberate- 
ly. "I  been  a  seeker  and  a  professor  o'  religion  nigh 
onto  thirty  year.  I  done  more  fur  this  church  'n  any 
other  man.  I  pay  liberal,  and  I  got  a  voice  in  our  coun- 
cils. Now,  my  brother  lives  down  South.  He's  over- 
seer on  a  Virginia  plantation,  and  he  knows  more  about 
the  institution  of  slavery  and  its  ins  and  outs  than  I 
do — and  more  than  some  others  does,"  nodding  back- 
ward towards  Martin.  "And  he  says  it's  necessary 
and  all  right." 

Martin  started  up.  "Is  that  man  your  brother?"  he 
exclaimed.  "The  overseer  on  the  Curtis  plantation? 
The  man  who  took  Enoch  back?" 

"  What  are  you  talkin'  about?"  Griffin  asked. 

"  I  did  not  associate  your  name  with  his,"  Martin 
declared.     "  But  now  I  see  you  are  like  him. " 

Again  Griffin  cleared  his  throat  and  wiped  his  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  left  thumb. 

"Don't  try  to  shet  me  up,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  Jack- 
sonian  Democrat.  I've  read  the  Bible — some,  I  guess; 
and  I  believe  in  the  divine  right  of  lettin'  folks  that 
know  as  much  as  I  do  mind  their  own  business.  And  I 
come  here  to  listen  to  the  word  o'  God.  I  get  my  politics 
at  the  post-office.  And  I  want  to  say  right  here,  that 
I  guess  we  won't  have  no  more  mixin'  o'  politics  and 
religion,  not  while  I  contribute  to  the  missionary  and 
salary  funds  here  in  this  society." 

"I  have  reason  to  remember  j^our  brother,"  Martin 
said,  bitterly. 

Griffin  started  down  the  aisle.  "  I  wish  he  was  here 
now  to  show  you  a  thing  or  two,"  he  retorted  over  his 
shoulder,  and  resumed  his  walk  just  as  a  little  man 
who  kept  a  grocery,  with  a  barrel  or  two  of  the  custom- 

262 


Martin    Brook 

ary  beverage  in  the  rear  of  the  store,  came  out  of  a 
pew. 

Martin  had  sunk  back  on  the  sofa,  the  picture  of 
Enoch's  capture  before  him.  Now  he  rose  again  at 
the  sound  of  another  voice. 

"I  want  to  bear  the  testimony  o'  my  witnesses/'  the 
grocer  cried,  in  a  metallic  voice  that  seemed  to  rise  in 
the  apex  of  his  receding  forehead,  run  down  an  incline 
to  the  point  of  his  prominent  nose,  and  retire  on  an  equal 
angle  of  his  chinless  jaw  into  the  creases  of  his  cravat. 
"  I  agree  with  our  brother,  an'  I  want  to  say  that  I  won't 
listen  to  this  mixin'  o'  business  an'  religion." 

The  leading  member  paused  in  the  aisle.  "We  will 
not  discuss  business  on  the  Sabbath,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"  I  guess  I've  as  much  right  to  talk  as  you  have.  I 
pay  my  share,"  the  little  man  asserted.  "He  hit  you 
as  much  as  he  did  me.  You  were  findin'  fault  last 
night  with  my  Santy  Crooze,  an'  I — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  the  leading  member  commanded. 

"  I  won't !  You  think  you  run  things,  because  you 
pay.  You'd  better  pay  what  you  owe  me.  I'd  have 
more  to  give  to  the  Church." 

The  little  man's  wife  caught  him  by  the  coat-skirts 
and  pulled  him  violently  into  the  seat.  "Set  down!" 
she  ordered. 

The  children  laughed,  covering  their  mouths  with 
their  hands. 

The  leading  member  towered  up  near  the  door.  Point- 
ing a  shaking  finger  at  Martin,  who  stood  with  his 
hand  raised  appealingly,  he  said :  "  See  what  you  have 
done!  You've  brought  dissension  and  discord  into 
the  sanctuary!"     He  slammed  the  door  as  he  went  out. 

"The  congregation  will  please  consider  itself  dis- 
missed," Martin  said,  and  sat  down. 

Not  a  man  or  woman  came  to  him,  as  he  waited  for 
physical  strength  to  leave  the  place. 

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Martin    Brook 

Martin  descended  the  pulpit  steps  and  struggled 
homeward,  bowing  his  head  to  the  wintry  blast. 

He  locked  himself  in  his  room  and  dropped  to  his 
knees  in  a  whirlwind  of  emotion.  Mrs.  Dalton  tried 
vainly  to  attract  his  attention. 

He  was  beyond  the  reach  of  human  S3rmpathy — he 
was  where  the  grace  of  God  alone  could  sustain  him 
now.  There  was  no  faltering  of  the  heart.  The  tired 
bod}7  was  weak,  but  the  soul  was  strong  within  him. 

And  in  this  dark  hour  his  mind  grew  calmer,  borne 
upward  by  a  single  thought;  undefined  at  first,  yet 
taking  form  as  the  hours  went  on. 

"Mary!  Dear  Mary!"  he  whispered.  Her  presence 
seemed  to  fill  the  room.  "She  knows  that  this  is  my 
day  of  trial  by  fire — she  is  watching  the  moments ;  she 
is  with  me,  a  spiritual  miracle  of  love  and  strength. 
She  knows  that  I  am  now  only  Martin  Brook — the 
abolitionist!" 


Chapter  VIII 

MARTIN  BROOK  soon  learned  what  it  meant  to  offer 
resistance  to  the  movement  of  the  ordained  —  learned 
what  it  means  to  feel  the  bufferings  of  resentful  condi- 
tions that  are  angry  at  their  disturbance.  And  yet, 
he  argued,  it  is  only  by  this  interference  with  a  tendency 
to  the  permanent — the  evidence  of  immortality — that 
the  Established  is  confirmed  in  its  evolution.  He 
knew  that  he  had  become  an  abolitionist  before  the 
people  demanded  such  a  thought.  He  knew  that  he 
had  disturbed  the  Established,  and  the  tides  of  hostility 
were  destined  to  sweep  over  him. 

The  winter  blustered  itself  away.  As  the  storm  of 
Martin's  first  declaration  had  engulfed  him,  so  now 
the  modifying  influence  of  the  accustomed  tempered 
him  to  his  new  estate  of  mind. 

He  had  not  startled  the  world.  The  effects  of  his 
sermon  were  local,  merely;  and  the  load  was  heavier 
on  his  shoulders  because  of  the  smallness  of  the  area 
of  invigoration.  The  annoyances  of  a  petty  environ- 
ment reached  him  directly  and  personally.  He  felt  the 
censure  of  his  people.  He  lacked  the  sustaining  aid 
of  men  who  dealt  with  large  affairs.  There  were  a  few, 
as  is  always  the  case,  who  remained  friendly;  but  the 
official  members  of  his  church  turned  a  cold  shoulder 
on  him.  He  was  alone  with  a  universal  problem.  Most 
of  his  associates  were  incapable  of  understanding  him ; 
but  Mrs.  Dalton  was  among  the  few  who  proved  to  be 
friends  in  need — a  type  of  greatness  of  soul  reduced 

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Martin    Brook 

to  the  dimensions  of  her  surroundings.  She  perceived, 
in  her  small  way,  that  his  keenest  suffering  came  from 
a  consciousness  that  he  was  misunderstood. 

"Don't  get  down-hearted,  Mr.  Brook/'  she  said, 
cheerily.  "  I  should  just  like  to  tell  them  what  I  think! 
but,  my  sakes!  'tain't  worth  while.  I  ain't  a  talker. 
Do  you  intend  to  come  back  here  another  year?" 

"I  have  no  plans.  I  shall  leave  m}^  appointment 
entirely  with  the  Conference,"  he  said. 

"I  was  goin'  to  say  that  I'm  goin'  to  break  up  here. 
You'll  have  to  get  another  boardin'-place  after  June,  if 
you  do  come  back,  'cause  I'm  goin'  down  to  Troy  to 
live  with  my  brother.  He's  in  the  butter  and  egg 
business  down  there,  with  a  man  named  Larrabee." 

"Larrabee?"  said  Martin.  "That's  a  familiar  name. 
I  know  a  man — Eph  Larrabee — " 

"Why,  his  name's  Eph.     I  wonder  if  it's  him." 

"  Possibly.  I  have  lost  sight  of  my  old  acquaintance. 
Speaking  of  my  future,  Mrs.  Dalton,  Conference  will 
meet  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  the  Lord  will  pro- 
vide a  way  for  me.  But  I  shall  miss  you,  if  I  return 
here  and  you  are  gone.  You  have  been  verj7  kind  to 
me."     He  left  the  room. 

"Humph!"  Mrs.  Dalton  ejaculated.  "It  must  keep 
the  Lord  pretty  busy  providin'  for  them  Methodists — 
movin'  about  as  they  do.  I  sh'll  be  glad  when  I  can 
get  back  among  nry  folks  and  hear  some  real  good 
Cong'gational  preachin'." 

True,  as  always,  to  his  promise,  Charles  Chichester 
was  the  first  man  to  greet  Martin  at  the  Conference, 
when  it  assembled  the  next  June. 

"  Why,  I'm  glad  to  see  you !"  Martin  said.  "  Are  you 
here  on  business?" 

"Yes,"  said  Chichester.  " It's  business,  sure  enough 
— political  business." 

266 


Martin    Brook 

"Political?     Is  there  a  convention — " 

"Oh,  see  here,  Mr.  Brook/'  Chichester  laughed. 
"I'm  going  to  have  you  sent  to  Troy.  That's  the 
political  work." 

Martin's  face  took  on  a  serious  look.  "I  would 
prefer  to  have  no  suggestion  made  regarding  my  as- 
signment." 

"Leave  that  to  me/'  Chichester  said,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  Martin's  arm  as  they  walked  into  the  church. 

Neither  of  them  had  noticed  a  man  standing  within 
sound  of  their  voices — a  man  in  a  natty  hunting-suit, 
who  was  evidently  on  his  way  either  to  or  from  a  trip 
in  the  woods.  If  they  had  observed  him,  they  would 
have  discovered  Sidney  Graham. 

At  the  close  of  the  Conference,  when  the  appoint- 
ments were  read,  Martin  heard  the  bishop  assign  him, 
not  to  Troy,  but  to  Keeseville.  He  caught  Chichester's 
eye  across  the  assembly-room  and  smiled.  Chiches- 
ter pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  and  reached 
him. 

"It's  your  own  fault,"  Chichester  declared.  "I  did 
my  best.  Somebody  beat  me,  that's  all.  I'll  find 
out  who  it  is,  and  be  even  with  him." 

Martin  rebuked  him,  good  -  humoredly ,  and  said 
good-bye.  He  went  out,  walking  along  the  street, 
with  eyes  on  the  ground,  unheeding  those  about  him. 
Some  one  wilfully  blocked  his  way. 

"  Excuse  me — ' '  Martin  said,  involuntarily.  His  words 
of  apology  stopped  short. 

Sidney  Graham  was  standing  directly  in  his  path, 
with  legs  wide  apart  and  hands  thrust  deep  into  his 
pockets.  There  was  a  sarcastic  smile  on  his  face — 
a  face  that  showed  the  marks  of  reckless  living.  He 
was  no  longer  in  hunting-costume,  but  he  was  flashily 
dressed.  His  manner  of  cool  insolence  showed  that 
he  had  deliberately  offered  the  insult. 

267 


Martin    Brook 

"I  notice  you  didn't  get  that  Troy  appointment/ ' 
Graham  said. 

Martin  looked  at  him,  first  in  amazement  and  then 
in  gathering  anger.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  his  sacred 
calling;  he  felt  his  muscles  hardening.  The  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind :  how  did  Graham  know  that 
mention  had  been  made  of  his  name  in  connection  with 
Troy?  The  action  of  the  bishop  and  his  cabinet  was 
taken  in  secret.  Then  came  the  realization  of  his 
obligations.  He  was  a  Methodist  preacher,  subject  to 
disciplinary  rules.  He  was  no  longer  permitted  to 
avenge  an  insult  with  a  blow. 

Graham  continued :  "  You  do  so  well  up  here  in  the 
woods  that  we  like  to  keep  you  here."  His  tone  im- 
plied an  influence  in  the  Conference  and  a  sarcastic 
friendliness. 

"  We?    What  have  you  to  do  with  Church  affairs?" 

"  About  as  much  as  Chichester,  I  guess." 

"Mr.  Chichester  is  my  friend — " 

"Oh,  he's  everybody's  friend.  Let  me  give  you  a 
hint:  When  you  talk  private  matters  on  the  street, 
speak  a  little  lower."  He  laughed  at  Martin's  evident 
perplexity.  He  moved  a  step  or  two  and  lighted  a 
cigar,  puffing  the  smoke  in  Martin's  face. 

"Why,  this  is  dastardly!"  Martin  said,  hotly,  with 
clinched  fists.  "You  overhear  a  private  conversation 
and  make  use  of  it!" 

"Yes,"  Graham  said,  offensively.  "I  happen  to 
have  some  influence.  You  know  I  am  residing  in 
Albany  now.  No?  Well,  I  am.  I'll  mention  having 
met  you.     Mrs.  Graham  will  be  delighted." 

Martin  stepped  in  front  of  Graham.  "  You  are  more 
contemptible  than  I  imagined." 

"Why  not  say  more  influential?"  Graham  replied, 
trying  to  appear  indifferent,  but  watching  Martin's 
fists.     "I've  stayed  here  a  week,  my  fine  man,  just 

268 


Martin    Brook 

to  down  you  in  this  move,  as  I  have  downed  you  in — 
in  several  others/' 

Graham  walked  away,  but  turned  and  said,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  the  ministers  who  had  gathered 
near  them,  amazed  at  the  extraordinary  spectacle  of  a 
street  quarrel  by  one  of  their  number : 

"  By  -  the  -  way,  I  understand  you  have  become  an 
abolitionist.     Are  you  in  training  for  the  Presidency  ?" 

He  walked  jauntily  off,  joining  an  acquaintance, 
who  laughed  at  his  joke  as  he  pointed  to  Martin. 

Martin  remained  standing  where  Graham  had  left 
him,  until  a  friend  came  up  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"You  are  not  disappointed  at  your  station?"  the 
friend  asked. 

"No/'  Martin  replied,  thoughtfully.  "I  was  in- 
dulging in  some  very  unministerial  thoughts.  Thank 
you  for  bringing  me  to  a  sense  of  duty." 

But  the  incident  did  not  long  remain  in  Martin's 
mind,  except  as  an  unanswered  problem :  How  far  is  a 
minister  justified  in  chastising  an  insolent  bully? 

His  happiness  at  the  thought  of  going  where  Mary 
was  overbalanced  the  annoyance  of  this  personal  in- 
sult. He  was  glad  that  Chichester  had  failed  in  the 
attempt  to  send  him  to  Troy,  since  at  Keeseville  he 
could  be  within  the.immediate  atmosphere  of  Mary's  love. 

And  Mary,  in  the  pleasure  of  having  him  near  her, 
was  inexpressibly  happy. 

She  saw,  with  an  intuitive  sight,  that  there  was  some- 
thing he  did  not  tell  her — some  secret  feeling  that  dis- 
tressed him.  But  she  did  not  press  a  confidence  he 
seemed  indisposed  to  volunteer.  His  memory  of  Gra- 
ham's brutal  reference  to  his  abolitionism  awakened 
into  positive  action  the  dread  he  felt  for  Mary's  accept- 
ance of  his  new  destiny.  It  was  a  realization  of  an 
anticipated  hostility  which  she,  when  once  his  wife, 
must  share. 

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Martin    Brook 

And  yet  he  longed  for  her.  Their  daily  meeting — 
for  it  was  known  that  Martin  and  Mary  were  engaged, 
and  he  was  free  to  be  with  her — was  only  a  confirmation 
of  his  dependence  on  her,  and  his  nearest  friends,  to 
whom  he  spoke  of  his  affairs,  urged  him  to  the  change. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  cause  for  further  delay. 

So,  at  her  uncle's  house,  in  the  little  parlor  where  he 
had  first  realized  that  he  loved  her,  and  where  she  had 
confessed  her  love  for  him,  they  were  married.  Without 
display  or  ostentation,  after  the  simple  manner  of  his 
Church,  they  took  upon  themselves  the  sacred  vows. 

The  school  -  children  brought  wreaths  of  bright  au- 
tumn leaves  and  flowers,  and  sang  the  songs  that  she 
had  taught  them.  A  quiet  wedding,  the  neighbors 
said;  but  all  the  glare  and  pomp  of  royal  ceremon}^ 
could  not  have  made  it  a  more  holy  union  of  two  lives. 

"Dear  wife!"  Martin  would  repeat,  for  joy  of  saj^ing 
it,  as  they  took  up  the  kumble  round  of  domestic  cares 
in  the  parsonage.  "You  have  the  home  -  building 
quality,  if  I  do  lack  it.  Maybe,  some  day,  I  shall  actu- 
ally become  acquisitive!" 

"Let  us  learn  to  acquire  the  riches  of  contentment," 
she  replied,  in  her  desire  to  transform  the  tiny  home 
into  a  haven  of  rest  for  Martin. 

It  was,  too,  a  place  where  every  one  loved  to  come 
— there  was  an  air  of  hospitality  and  cheer  about  them 
that  lightened  many  a  heavy  heart. 

One  day  Chichester  burst  in  upon  them,  in  his  breezy 
way. 

"  I've  gone  three  whole  blocks  out  of  my  road  to  shake 
hands  with  you,  old  man,"  he  cried.  "I'd  show  more 
grit  if  I  cut  you  dead.  It's  just  my  luck!  Whenever 
I  think  of  getting  married,  along  comes  a  homelier 
man  and  cuts  me  out!" 

"I'm  glad  I  am  homelier,  if  that's  possible,"  Martin 
said. 

270 


Martin    Brook 

"You  ought  to  be,"  Chichester  replied.  "But  I'm 
glad  it  happened  as  it  did— for  her  sake.  I'm  not  good 
enough  for  her.  That  sermon  of  yours  settled  the 
matter  in  my  mind.  I  believe— upon  my  word,  I  believe 
she  wrote  it!  Come  now/'  he  laughed,  "own  up! 
She  has  the  brains  of  the  family!" 

"Not  only  the  brains/'  said  Martin,  gravely,  "but 
the  spiritual  strength  as  well.  Come/'  he  added, 
"Mary  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

One  evening,  several  months  after  their  marriage, 
Martin  was  sitting  alone  in  his  study.  Mary  came 
to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  head.  He  glanced 
up,  smiling,  from  the  plans  and  estimates  of  the  church 
he  was  hoping  his  people  would  build.  The  old  build- 
ing was  surely  too  small  for  the  growing  congregation. 

"Martin,  please  don't  do  any  more  to-night,"    she 

said. 

He  shoved  the  papers  from  him  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"  I  have  done  all  I  can  do.     It's  a  big  undertaking. " 

"  Then  why  do  you  try  it?" 

"Oh,  I  must.  There  is  a  disposition  on  the  part  of 
—of  some  to  withdraw  support;  but  we  have  raised 
nearly  enough  to  complete  the  church." 

"Why  do  they  withdraw  support?"  She  pushed  a 
footstool  to  the  side  of  his  chair,  as  he  turned  his  back 
to  the  table,  and  sat  down,  resting  her  arms  on  his  knees. 
He  stroked  her  hair  with  one  hand  and  leaned  his  head 
on  the  other,  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"The  same  old  story,  dear.  Some  of  the  members 
of  the  official  board  are  angry  with  me  for  alluding  to— 
to  the  Cause." 

"Which  do  you  need  most:    A  new  church,  or  the 
conversion  of  men  to  the  Cause?" 
"Do  you  ask  me  to  give  up — " 

"No— no,"  she  said,  quickly,  "not  that.     But  there 

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Martin    Brook 

are  different  ways  of  accomplishing  the  same  good  end. 
Learn  to  adapt  yourself  to  the  larger  question  more 
slowly.  God  will  right  all  wrongs  in  His  own  good 
time.  You  are  wearing  yourself  out  by  this  urgency. 
You  can't  reform  the  world  alone  and  in  a  minute." 

"True;  but,  as  His  instrument,  I  must  be  governed 
by  my  conscience.  Principles  stand  before  expediency. 
The  argument  against  me  is  that  I  am  impractical/' 

"You  need  not  sacrifice  principle.  Who  is  your 
strongest  opponent?  Has  Brother  Dillinger  refused 
to  pay  his  subscription?" 

"Yes.  He  told  me  that  he  would  not  pay  a  cent  if 
I  ever  mentioned  slavery  in  the  pulpit. " 

"His  name  is  on  the  paper,"  she  suggested.  "He 
is  legally  bound  to  pay  this  subscription,  regardless 
of  his  opinion  of  you." 

"  I  know  he  is ;  but  that  means  a  lawsuit,  if  we  try  to 
enforce  collection." 

"  It  is  legal — right  is  lawful,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  sadly.  "Why,  my  dear,  my  contention 
is  with  the  law — which  is  not,  as  3Tou  incorrectly  imply, 
always  right.  If  I  were  to  go  into  a  court,  on  a  case 
against  Brother  Dillinger,  I  doubt  if  either  judge  or 
jury  would  vindicate  me.  He  is  a  political  power  in 
this  place,  and  prejudice  is  on  his  side.  No.  There 
must  be  no  lawsuits  over  a  Methodist  subscription." 

"  Then  try  moral  suasion." 

"  He  ordered  me  out  of  his  store  this  morning,"  Martin 
said,  grimly,  "because  I  told  a  pro-slavery  man  that 
slavery  was  a  sin.  Brother  Dillinger  said  I  was  ruin- 
ing his  business." 

Mary  turned  her  face  from  the  light,  to  hide  the 
trembling  of  her  lip.  Ordered  out  of  a  public  place! 
And  this  was  Martin  Brook,  the  athlete  who  had  whip- 
ped the  village  bully  in  Sandy  Hill  and  thrown  Sidney 
Graham  into  the  Hudson! 

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Martin    Brook 

"  Did  you  resent  the  insult ?"  she  asked. 

"I  told  him  I  regretted  his  behavior/'  Martin  replied. 

"Why  didn't  you — "  She  checked  herself,  her  lit- 
tle body  quivering. 

"Why  didn't  I  knock  him  down?"  he  asked,  with  a 
smile.  "  I  am  not  a  Peter  Cartwright. "  Then,  gravely : 
"  If  I  resented  every  personal  insult,  I  should  be  known 
as  a  fighting  parson.     I  have  borne  much." 

She  looked  into  his  face  keenly. 

"Martin,"  she  said,  "there  is  something  you  have 
kept  from  me  ever  since  you  came  back  from  Conference. 
I  saw  it  from  the  first  in  your  looks  and  manner.  What 
is  it?" 

He  kissed  her  on  the  uplifted  forehead.  "  It  is  simply 
that  I  know  a  dear  little  woman  who  has  the  sharpest 
eyes  in  this  great  big  world!" 

"Tell  me!"  she  commanded,  slapping  his  hands. 

"Why,  it  isn't  worth  the  breath,  Mary." 

"I  kneiv  I  was  right!  Tell  me!"  She  imprisoned 
his  hands,  while  he  made  show  of  being  frightened. 
Her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  gently  releasing  a  hand  to  pat  hers  as 
they  lay  in  his  one  broad  palm,  "  it  was — you'd  never 
guess — it  was  Sidney  Graham. "  She  drew  a  quavering 
breath.  "He  said  something  that  made  me  forget 
my  calling  for  a  moment.  I  was  nearer  to  a  violation 
of  my  obligations  as  a  preacher  than  ever  before,  and 
I—" 

"  Did  you  throw  him  into  the  river  again?"  she  cried. 

"Fortunately,  we  weren't  near  the  river  this  time." 
A  twinkle  was  in  his  eyes,  but  he  grew  grave  beneath 
her  steady  gaze  as  he  told  her  of  the  incident.  She 
sat  with  eager,  bated  breath. 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "what  it  means  to  be 
the  wife  of  an  abolitionist." 

"You  are  an  abolitionist,  and  I  am  proud  of  you! 
s  273 


Martin    Brook 

You  could  have  whipped  him  if  you  had  tried ;  but  you 
didn't  because  you  are  the  bravest  and  truest  of  men." 
She  dropped  back  to  her  place,  with  her  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  her  chin  in  both  her  hands.  "We'll  build 
the  church,  Martin/'  she  said,  with  a  deep,  convinc- 
ing sigh. 

He  laughed  outright — the  first  ringing,  old-time 
laugh  she  had  heard  him  give  for  weeks.  She  looked 
up  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Forgive  me,  sweetheart,"  he  said,  wiping  the  tears 
of  laughter  from  his  eyes.  "  I  wasn't  exactly  prepared 
for  that  conclusion.  From  thrashing  Graham  to  build- 
ing a  church  is  really  quite  a  long  jump.  But  you 
were  always  a  rapid  thinker." 

"Why,"  she  said,  contracting  her  forehead,  "isn't 
a  man  who  can  govern  his  temper  greater  than  he  that 
taketh  a  city?  And  I  guess  a  man  like  that  can  build 
one  little  wooden  Methodist  church." 

"Stone,  my  dear.  We  contemplate  using  stone," 
he  said. 

"Well,  marble  then,  with  jasper  gates!" 

He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "I  will  do  the  best 
I  can,"  he  said,  "with  your  help." 


Chapter  IX 

THE  church  was  built,  and  of  solid  stone,  too,  before 
Martin  had  completed  his  second  year  at  Keeseville; 
and  the  records  showed  a  clear  accounting,  free  from 
debts — except  that  more  enduring  debt  of  gratitude 
to  God,  on  which  Martin  sought  to  pay  the  interest 
by  a  renewal  of  his  zeal. 

A  revival  followed  the  material  effort  with  a  spiritual 
awakening,  not  only  in  Keeseville,  but  in  Burlington, 
where  Martin  was  stationed  during  the  next  two  years  ; 
and  his  soul  was  filled  with  gratitude. 

"The  past  year  has  been  one  of  glorious  upliftment/, 
Martin  wrote  in  his  diary,  just  before  the  assembling 
of  Conference.  "  The  hostility  of  the  few,  occasioned 
by  my  continued  advocacy  of  freedom,  was  overcome 
in  large  measure,  so  far  as  my  personal  feelings  and 
Mary's  comfort  are  concerned,  by  the  friendliness  of 
the  many.  And  God  has  blessed  me.  A  son  was  born 
to  us  within  the  shelter  of  these  cottage  walls,  where 
the  vast  tumult  of  the  great  world  has  no  place/ ' 

And  in  Mary's  heart  the  only  question  of  conflict 
was  the  choice  of  baby's  name. 

"But,  dearest,"  Mary  urged,  "  it  should  be  ' Martin/ 
of  course." 

"  We  must  give  the  boy  your  name,  Mary,  somehow. 
Suppose  we  decide  on  your  father's  name — let  us  call 
him  Thomas  Whittaker." 

"Can't  we  add  yours,  too?"  she  pleaded. 

275 


Martin    Brook 

"We  know  what  your  father  was/'  Martin  said. 
"It  is  safer  to  trust  to  that  knowledge." 

But  long  before  the  infant  Thomas  could  expound 
the  differences  in  the  ceremonies  of  baptism  or  pass 
judgment  on  their  saving  grace,  it  chanced  that  Charles 
Chichester  again  found  business  reasons  for  visiting 
the  region  of  the  Champlain;  and  from  his  capacious 
leathern  trunk  there  came  forth  the  most  beautiful 
silver  cup  that  Alary  had  ever  seen. 

"Martin,"  she  said,  "you  were  right.  The  name 
looks  right. " 

"Right?"  said  Chichester.  "Of  course,  it's  right. 
Wait  till  'Martin  Brook'  stands  for  an  idea.  Then 
name  the  babies  after  him." 

"I  learned  of  Graham's  interference  with  my  plans 
for  you,"  he  went  on  to  Martin,  "and  I  started  a  cam- 
paign. I  shall  be  on  the  ground  here  in  Burlington 
at  the  opening  of  the  Conference,  and  I  shall  say :  '  We 
want  Martin  Brook  in  Tro}^. '  I  will  back  this  up  with 
a  petition  they  won't  dare  to  ignore." 

"Are  you  sure  that  I  am  wanted  in  Troy?"  Martin 
said,  in  protest. 

"Wanted?  I  want  you,  and  that's  one.  You  leave 
the  rest  to  me.  You're  too  modest,  my  dear  man."  He 
picked  the  precious  bab}^  up,  while  Mary  stood  trem- 
bling with  anxiety.  "Ain't  he,  Thomas  Whittaker 
Brook,  Esquire?  That's  what.  Too  modest;  that's 
what  your  old  daddy  is!" 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  take  him  now,"  Mary  suggested, 
tremblingly. 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Brook,"  Chichester  de- 
clared. "Thomas  W.  knows  his  old  Uncle  Charles — 
don't  you,  chick?" 

"I  hope  he  will  know  you  some  day,"  Mary  said, 
rescuing  the  baby. 

"He  will  —  mark   my    word,   he    will,"   Chichester 

276 


Martin    Brook 

averred,  as  Mary  quitted  the  room.  "Fine  boy,  that! 
Couldn't  help  being,  with  such  a  mother.  I  tell  you, 
Brook,  you  must  look  to  the  main  chance  now.  You've 
got  something  to  live  for." 

"I  appreciate  that  fact/'  Martin  said. 

"  Then  show  it  next  June.  I'll  be  at  the  Conference, 
if  I  have  to  go  on  two  sticks.  Pity  we  can't  have  a  vote 
on  our  ministers,"  Chichester  said,  scowlingly. 

"If  that  would  bring  you  into  the  Church,"  Martin 
said,  with  a  touch  of  humor,  "  I  should  favor  it  myself." 

"Oh,  well,"  Chichester  replied,  "I'm  just  on  the  out- 
side, you  know;  right  up  close  to  the  front  door." 

"  You  are  so  close  to  the  door  of  my  heart  that  I  wish 
to  see  you  converted  to  the  faith,"  Martin  said,  shaking 
his  hand,  as  Chichester  was  leaving. 

And  he  was  close  to  the  good  bishop,  too,  when 
Conference  met. 

The  venerated  bishop,  in  the  maturity  of  a  noble 
manhood,  was  conscious  of  every  need  of  the  region 
and  the  time.  His  early  service  on  the  Plattsburg 
circuit,  and  his  later  experiences  as  preacher  and  prel- 
ate, had  brought  him  into  firm  touch  with  all  the 
members  of  the  Troy  Conference.  He  knew  Martin, 
and  loved  him  as  he  might  a  son,  taking  the  younger 
man  into  his  great  heart,  that  beat  with  sympathy  for 
all  who  showed  a  courage  for  the  truth. 

"My  dear  Martin,"  the  bishop  said,  calling  him  to 
the  privacy  of  his  own  room,  "  they  are  asking  for  you 
in  Troy.  There  is  no  man  in  your  Conference  I  would 
rather  see  in  stations  of  large  resources.  You  have 
been  tried  here,  in  the  new  sections,  where  vigorous 
men  are  required,  and  you  have  proved  yourself  worthy 
of  confidence  and  esteem.  I  have  watched  your  develop- 
ment with  a  fatherly  eye.  I  am  now  sixty-two.  My 
years  of  activity  are  drawing  to  a  close,  and  I  have  lived 
to  see  our  Church  expand  from  a  quarter  of  a  million  to 

277 


Martin    Brook 

nearly  a  million  souls.  I  predict  a  speedy  awakening 
of  interest.  The  times  are  ripe  for  it.  Now,  let  me 
say  a  few  plain  words.     You  will  take  them  kindly?" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  as  in  blessing.  Martin  grasped  it. 

"Dear  bishop/'  he  said,  "I  shall  regard  what  you 
say  as  not  only  the  words  of  authorit}^  and  wisdom, 
but  of  love." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  brother,"  the  bishop  replied. 
u  Then  I  say  this :  You  are  filled  with  zeal.  You  are, 
by  nature,  emotional — a  good  quality,  if  rightly  directed. 
But  you  have  recently  come  into  a  form  of  feeling  that 
somewhat  threatens  3Tour  usefulness  as  a  preacher. 
I  am  a  man  of  years  and  experience,  with  eighteen  of 
those  years  spent  in  the  episcopac}^  I  have  seen  a 
good  deal  of  the  world  and  have  encountered  all  sorts 
of  men.  My  office  is  judicial.  I  am  no  less  fervent 
in  the  cause  of  humanity  than  you  are,  but  I  have  learn- 
ed that  one  man  cannot  do  all  the  work.  We  must 
each  put  a  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  we  must  wait  for 
God's  signal  to  exert  our  strength.  Will  you  promise 
me,  for  your  own  good,  to  be  more  discreet  in  one  respect 
— to  be  more  guarded  in  the  expression  of  your  political 
views? 

"Political  views?"  Martin  said,  questioningly. 

"Yes.  Hold  to  37our  principles;  be  manly  in  the 
discussion  of  all  questions  in  season;  but  be  more  pru- 
dent.    There  is  a  time  for  silence." 

"My  principles  are  based  on  convictions/' 

"That  is  right;  but  you  should  bear  in  mind  that 
human  opinion  is  fallible.  Do  not  mistake  my  mean- 
ing. I  oppose  slavery  as  sincerely  as  you  do,  but  I 
allude  to  the  opinions  regarding  the  method  of  the 
extinction  of  the  evil.  We  can  hold  views  on  essentials 
that  are  correct  beyond  doubt,  and  still  err  on  policies 
concerning  the  surest  means  of  remedjang  error  in 
others." 

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Martin    Brook 

"I  am  not  a  policy  man/'  Martin  affirmed.  "There 
can  be  no  compromise  with  sin — and  American  slavery 
is  the  greatest  national  sin." 

"One  of  the  greatest,  let  me  venture  to  say.  We 
find  many  serious  forms  of  wickedness/'  the  bishop 
said,  mildly. 

Martin  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  in  profound 
thought. 

"Now,  Martin/'  the  bishop  continued,  "look  at  this 
matter  through  my  eyes,  grown  far-sighted  and  con- 
servative. Slavery  came  in  with  our  forefathers;  it 
is  deep-rooted,  but  in  God's  own  time  it  will  be  exter- 
minated. We  are  verging  on  perilous  events.  Our 
Church  may  yet  be  divided  on  this  subject — " 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "because  of  the  Northern  pro- 
slavery  influence  and  the  lukewarmness  of  our  high 
officials." 

The  bishop's  stern  but  benevolent  features  relaxed 
into  a  smile. 

"  There  you  go  again.     That  is  a  reflection  on  me." 

"No — no,"  Martin  hastened  to  say. 

"Well,  I  have  only  one  more  suggestion  to  offer. 
You  are  a  man  of  rare  intellectual  powers ;  your  integrity 
is  established.  Our  Church,  in  its  growth,  will  soon 
be  needing  a  larger  number  of  bishops.  The  judicial 
mind  is  demanded  in  that  office.  You  are  in  the  right 
locality  to  claim  attention — ail  conditions  are  favorable 
excepting  this  lack  of  the  calmly  judicial  in  your  men- 
tal make-up.  Follow  my  advice.  Do  you  comprehend 
my  meaning?" 

Martin  grew  pale.  He  stood  before  the  man  he  loved 
and  honored  as  before  a  tribunal. 

"My  dear  bishop,"  he  said,  "I  entered  the  service  of 
God,  to  preach  Christ,  and  Him  crucified.  I  might 
have  chosen  a  worldly  profession,  but  I  did  not,  because 
I  felt  ordained  to  do  this  work  for  freedom  from  the 

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Martin    Brook 

pulpit.  I  shall  preach  the  gospel  as  I  understand  it. 
I  would  rather  appear  before  my  Maker  from  obscurity 
and  with  a  clear  conscience,  than  from  the  highest  office 
in  our  Church  gained  at  the  expense  of  my  vow  to  God/' 

The  bishop  rose  and  took  Martin's  hand. 

"May  God  strengthen  you,  my  dear  brother,  in  the 
choice  you  have  made/'  he  said,  solemnly,  with  a  sad 
look  in  his  eyes,  "and  you  will  need  wisdom  equal  to 
your  strength !  I  would  rejoice  to  see  you  in  the  College 
of  Bishops.  If  you  would  only  maintain  an  honorable 
silence,  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  reach  that 
dignity.     I  can  say  no  more :  think  on  what  I  have  said. " 

There  were  tears  in  the  bishop's  eyes  when  Martin 
thanked  him  and  left  his  presence;  and  there  was  a 
peculiar  earnestness  in  his  voice  when,  at  the  close  of 
the  session,  the  bishop  read  the  appointments  and  looked 
towards  Martin  as  he  said,  distinctly : 

"Troy:  Martin  Brook." 

Chichester  came  hurrying  up  as  the  announcement 
was  made. 

"We've  outgeneralled  them  this  time,"  he  whispered, 
in  glee. 

"No,"  Martin  said,  slowly;  "it  is  the  ordering  of  a 
Higher  Power." 

"Well,  whatever  you  think,  it's  all  right,"  Chiches- 
ter laughed.  "  But  I  am  sorry  I  can't  be  in  town  when 
you  first  reach  there.  I'm  going  out  to  Michigan  on 
business — in  timber-lands  now,  you  know — and  shall 
be  gone  a  month.  The  inconvenience  of  being  a  bachelor 
is  not  having  a  home  for  my  friends;  but  I'll  see  Mr. 
Ketchum  and  have  him  get  the  parsonage  in  shape. 
He's  the  leading  steward.  Good-bye."  They  shook 
hands,  Martin  expressing  regret  at  his  friend's  absence. 
Chichester  turned:  "Oh,  bj^-the-way,  I  forgot  this — 
the  key  to  the  parsonage."  He  handed  Martin  a  little 
packet,  and  quickly  disappeared  in  the  crowd.     Martin 

280 


Martin    Brook 

opened  the  wrapping  and  discovered  a  fifty  dollar  bill 
on  the  Commercial  Bank  of  Troy. 

"Mary  is  right/'  Martin  mused.  "That  man  is  a 
Christian  at  heart. " 

A  rainy  day  in  the  city — a  cold,  unseasonable,  windy 
day,  that  was  intended  for  the  far  North,  but  got  mixed 
in  its  bearings  and  was  making  itself  generally  dis- 
agreeable in  the  streets  of  Troy;  a  disreputable,  dis- 
orderly day,  that  defied  the  constables  to  take  it  up 
where  it  belonged. 

On  such  a  day  Martin  stepped  from  the  coach,  and 
inquired  at  the  office  if  Mr.  Ketchum  was  present. 
Mr.  Ketchum  was  not  present;  and  nobody  about  the 
place  appeared  to  know  where  Mr.  Ketchum  was  at 
that  particular  moment,  or  whether  he  designed  being 
present  at  all.  Martin  returned  to  the  coach,  which 
was  by  this  time  freed  from  the  luggage  in  the  leather- 
covered  boot  that  projected  behind  the  vehicle  like  a 
misplaced,  exaggerated  nose,  and  spoke  to  some  one 
inside. 

"There  is  some  mistake,  Mary.  Mr.  Ketchum  isn't 
here.  You  will  have  to  get  out  and  come  into  the  office 
until  I  can  find  him." 

Mary  Brook  appeared  at  the  coach  door  and  care- 
fully handed  forth  a  bundle  of  flannel.  Martin  took 
it,  and  helping  Mary  to  alight,  ran  quickly  under  cover. 
Mary  followed  him  swiftly,  to  avoid  the  rain. 

Once  inside  the  small  building,  the  swathings  of 
the  bundle  moved.  The  infant  Thomas  lifted  up  a 
voice  of  earnest  protest  at  the  world's  behavior.  Mary 
soothed  and  quieted  him,  while  Martin  stood  in  the 
doorway,  frowning  at  the  empty  street.  The  coach 
was  under  cover  now.  The  horses  were  stamping 
into  their  stalls.  Even  a  stray  dog,  that  had  sniffed 
at  him  as  he    descended,  had  found   a  dry  corner  in 

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Martin    Brook 

which  to  skulk.  But  he,  the  new  pastor  of  the  leading 
Methodist  Church  in  that  thriving  city,  had  nowhere 
to  shelter  his  wife  and  babe  from  the  storm. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  will  be  likely  to  find  Mr. — 
Brother — Ketchum?"  Martin  asked  the  clerk,  who  was 
watching  him  with  curiosity. 

"Why,  they's  a  Ketchum  keeps  a  grocery  down 
here  'bout  three  blocks.     Mebbe  it's  him  you  want." 

"Three  blocks?"  Mary  said.  "Can't  we  go  there, 
Martin?     Perhaps  he  didn't  get  3Tour  letter. " 

"  I  will  go  and  see  him.  You  stay  here  till  I  return," 
Martin  said. 

"No,"  said  Mary.  "Let  me  go,  too.  This  place 
is  so  public." 

They  started  down  the  street,  Martin  carrying  the 
baby  and  a  big  umbrella;  Mar}-,  wrapped  tightly  in 
her  pelisse,  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"This  must  be  the  place,"  Martin  said,  stopping  be- 
fore a  dingy  grocery,  whose  small  windows  were  filled 
with  various  signs  of  the  purveyor's  trade. 

They  entered  the  dark  store.  An  odor  of  smoked 
meats,  salted  fish,  molasses,  tobacco,  and  whale-oil,  in 
indefinable  contest  with  spices,  assailed  their  nostrils. 
At  the  rear  of  the  long,  narrow  room,  in  a  box  stove, 
a  feeble  flame  was  sputtering  grumblingly  at  a  stick 
or  two  of  unseasoned  wood.  On  the  end  of  the  counter, 
at  the  side  of  the  stove,  stood  a  desk  with  an  inclined 
top  and  a  little  railing  to  pen  in  the  ink-bottle  and  quills 
and  keep  them  from  plunging  to  fiery  suicide.  A  small 
window  in  the  rear  wall  tried  to  admit  some  light,  but, 
discouraged  at  its  failure,  resigned  itself  to  supporting 
a  family  of  spiders  in  a  misty  grove  of  cobwebs. 

Behind  the  desk  stood  a  tall,  stoop-shouldered  man, 
in  a  greasy  suit  of  threadbare  broadcloth,  originally 
planned  for  Sunday  wear.  His  long  slender  legs  were 
not  visible,  but  were  left  to  the  imagination  of  those 

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Martin    Brook 

who  could  judge  of  what  his  legs  must  be  by  the  length 
and  shape  of  his  arms.  A  profile  view  of  his  face  sug- 
gested stubbornness  of  character— the  chin  protruded 
on  a  straight  line  with  the  jaw,  and  seemed  envious 
of  the  nose,  that  began  right  and  went  twisting  off 
wrong,  ending  in  a  bulb.  The  eyes  were  somewhere 
behind  a  big  pair  of  silver  spectacles  with  sliding  bows, 
and  were  trying  to  lose  themselves  under  shaggy 
brows. 

The  man  was  rubbing  his  unshaven  chin  with  a 
claw-like  hand,  puckering  his  mouth  in  the  study  of 
some  papers  on  his  desk.     He  did  not  look  up  as  Martin 
approached  him,  leaving  Mary  standing  at  the  door. 
"  Is  this  Brother  Ketchum?"  Martin  asked. 
"Eh?"  the  man  said,  turning  his  head,  without  the 
slightest  show  of  interest. 
"  I  am  Martin  Brook—" 
"Oh,  be  ye?     Well,  my  name's  Ketchum." 
"Mr.  Chichester  said  you  were  to  meet  me— us— at 
the  stage.     I  wrote  you  telling — " 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  got  your  letter  here  somewheres," 
glancing  about  the  desk.  "Why  didn't  Chichester 
look  after  ye — he  got  ye  to  come  here,  didn't  he?" 

Martin's  blood  started  on  a  sudden  journey  to  his 
head.     He  was  nearing  the  unministerial  line  again. 

"My  wife  is  here,"  he  said,  repressing  his  anger, 
"and  she  is  very  tired.  I  suppose  you  have  the  key 
to  the  parsonage.  Will  you  go  with  us  and  show 
the  way?" 

"Well,  I  dunno  what  arrangements  has  been  made 
about  the  place;  dunno  as  anything — " 

"  Why,  where  are  we  to  stay  to-night  ?  I  need  scarcely 
remind  you  it  is  the  custom  for  some  member  of  my 
church  to  receive  and  entertain  the  new  preacher.  It 
has  become  a  right  we  must  demand.  A  Methodist 
minister  cannot  think  of  going  to  a  tavern  at  such  a 

283 


Martin    Brook 

time,  and  Mr.  Chichester  told  me  you  had  been  named 
as  the  one  to  receive  us/' 

"Oh/'  said  Ketchum,  "I  don't  care  where  you  stay. 
We're  cleaning  house,  I  guess.  That  is,  my  wife  ain't 
very  well,  and — " 

"And  my  wife  has  ridden  for  hours — we  have  been 
several  days  on  the  journey  from  Burlington.  M3- 
household  goods  are  at  the  warehouse,  and  I  presume 
there  is  no  stove  or  bed  in  the  parsonage.  I  was  never 
before  treated  in  this  way."     He  walked  towards  Mary. 

"  Well,  pull  up  a  chair  by  the  stove  and  tell  your  wife 
to  set  down,  if  she's  tired,"  Ketchum  said,  indifferently. 

"  Alary,"  Martin  said,  and  his  voice  trembled,  "  please 
go  down  there  with  baby,  and  sit  while  I  go  out  and 
find  a  suitable  tavern." 

He  led  the  weary  woman  to  the  stove,  and  placed  a 
chair  for  her. 

"This  is — Brother  Ketchum,"  the  customary  term 
strangled  him  for  a  moment.  "  The  gentleman — who 
did  not  meet  us." 

Ketchum  grunted  a  recognition.  "I  hain't  got  no 
time  to  leave  the  store." 

"  This  is  a  very  bad  da}7  for  a  bab}7  to  be  out,"  Mary 
said.     "We  have  had  an  unpleasant  journey,  sir." 

"Ya-as,  I  s'pose  so,"  the  man  replied.  "I  know 
'tain't  no  da}7  for  customers." 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  Martin  demanded,  "where  I  can 
find  a  temperance  house?" 

"There's  one  up  on  Ida  Hill,"  Ketchum  suggested. 

"  Wiry,  that  is  nearly  a  mile  from  here,"  Martin  said, 
indignantly. 

"No;  not  more'n  half  a  mile,  I  guess." 

"Why  do  you  treat  me  in  this  manner?"  Martin 
inquired,  his  eyes  blazing  and  his  hands  shut  tight. 

Ketchum  deliberately  took  off  his  spectacles. 

"I  told  Chichester  I'd  give  vou  the  cold  shoulder 

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Martin    Brook 

from  the  start.  I  don't  want  ye  here— nor  no  other 
black  abolish'nist!" 

Martin  turned  to  his  wife. 

" Oh,  Mary,  Mary!     I  have  brought  you  to  this'/' 

"  No,  you  have  brought  me  where  I  can  understand  the 
need  of  the  work  you  are  doing,"  she  answered,  bravely. 

Ketchum  came  from  behind  the  counter,  and  started 
towards  the  front  of  the  store.  He  stopped  as  Mary 
spoke,  and  looked  at  her  with  contempt.  "Humph!" 
he  said;  "I  heerd  you  was  an  abolish'nist,  too."  He 
turned  away. 

Martin  wheeled  on  him,  with  an  arm  drawn  back 
to  strike.  A  little  girl  came  running  in.  "  Ma  wants 
half  a  pound  o'  tea  an'  a  pound  o'  crash  sugar,"  she 
called  out.     Martin's  hand  dropped  to  his  side. 

"Martin,  please  don't!"  Mary  cried,  half  rising. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said. 

Thomas  squirmed  into  an  attitude  of  freedom  and 
emitted  a  shrill  scream. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,"  said  Ketchum.  "This  ain't  no  place  for 
young  ones." 

"I  don't  like  to  leave  you  here,"  Martin  said,  "but  I 
must  find  a  place  first.  It  won't  do  to  take  baby  into 
the  rain,  you  know." 

"I  will  stay,"  she  said. 

Martin  left  her  there,  hushing  and  crooning  baby 
to  sleep,  and  hurried  on  his  quest.  When  he  was  gone, 
Mary  drew  back  as  far  out  of  sight  as  she  could  and 
buried  her  face  in  the  baby's  wrappings. 

Ketchum,  after  waiting  on  the  little  customer,  shuffled 
to  the  door  and  stood  scowling  at  the  retreating  figure 
of  Martin. 

A  gust  of  wind  came  swooping  down  the  hill.  It 
tossed  Martin's  umbrella  high  above  his  head  and 
turned  it  wrong  side  out. 

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Martin    Brook 

A  hearty,  good-natured  guffaw  at  his  ridiculous 
plight  burst  on  his  ears.  He  faced  about,  fiercely,  but 
stopped  in  amazement,  as  his  tormentor  cried  out : 

"  Well,  well !  I  swan !  Where  'n  earth  did  you  blow 
from?" 

Eph  Larrabee  grabbed  him  by  the  hand,  pulling  him 
half  off  his  feet  and  sending  the  umbrella  whirling 
down  the  hill.  "Why,  Eph,  I'm  glad  to  see  3Tou!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Well,  111  be  darned!"  Eph  roared.  "Ef  this  don't 
beat  all!     Where'd  you  come  from?     Rain  down?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Martin  gasped,  struggling  from  the 
grip  of  his  friend,  "but  I  guess  you  dropped  from 
heaven — to  help  a  pretty  angry  man." 

"Heaven?  Haw,  haw!"  Eph  exploded.  Then,  with 
seriousness:  "Pretty  nigh  heaven,  though.  I'm  mar- 
ried! Been  married  most  a  month!"  He  straightened 
up,  glowing  with  importance. 

"Is  that  so?"  Martin  said,  with  interest. 

"Ye-es!"  Eph  declared.  "Never  expected  to  be,  but 
I  am.  Found  my  'heart's  delight,'  as  the  feller  says. 
Gosh !     But  you  orter  see  her ! ' ' 

"I'm  sure  we  shall  be  pleased  to  meet  her,"  Martin 
said,  his  mind  on  Mary. 

"Well,  come  right  up  to  my  house,"  Eph  insisted, 
taking  Martin's  arm.  "She  ain't  lookin'  fer  comp'ny, 
but  that  don't  make  no  difference.  She'll  be  mighty 
glad  to  see  }^ou."     He  pulled  Martin  along. 

"No-o,  no,  I  can't  come  now,"  Martin  protested. 
"Some  other  day — I'm  occupied  now.  I  must  find  a 
place  for  my  wife  and — " 

"What?"    Eph  stood  still.     "Wife  with  ye,  too?" 

"Yes.  I  left  her  to  find  a  suitable  house — a  tem- 
perance house.     She  is  at  Brother  Ketchum's  store." 

"Where?"  Eph  ejaculated.  "At  that  old  skunk's! 
Well,  I  guess — " 

286 


Martin    Brook 

"Don't/'  said  Martin.  "Mr.  Ketchum  is  a  leading 
member  in — " 

"Yes,  I  know/'  Eph  said,  spinning  Martin  about 
and  starting  down  the  street  towards  the  store.  "  I've 
had  some  dealin'  with  him.  We'll  get  your  wife  and 
come  right  up  to  our  house."  He  caught  the  wayward 
umbrella  as  he  came  to  it,  slipped  its  whalebone  ribs 
back  into  place,  and  hastened  on  with  long  strides. 

"Ketchum?"  Eph  inquired.  "How'd  you  come  to 
know  him?" 

"  Why,  Eph,  haven't  you  heard  that  I  am  sent  here 
to  preach?" 

Eph  stopped  once  more.  "No.  You  don't  tell  me! 
Well,  you  see,"  he  added,  as  he  started  on.  "I  ain't 
a  Methodist,  but  I'm  religious  now,"  he  apologized. 
"Hain't  exactly  experienced  religion,  but  I've  come 
mighty  nigh  it.  I've  united  with  the  Cong'gationals. 
Was  ye  goin'  to  visit  Ketchum's  folks?" 

"No,"  Martin  explained.  "He  was — that  is,  I  un- 
derstood he  was — to  meet  us  at  the  stage,  but  he  didn't, 
and  I  went  around  to  his  store.  He  can't  have  us  at 
his  house  while  I  am  getting  my  things  up  from  the 
dock,  and  I  wanted  to  find  a  place  to  stop." 

"Oh,  1  see.  Well,  here  we  be."  Eph  plodded  into 
the  store  like  a  genial  behemoth  fresh  from  a  bath. 
"  Here  we  be  !"  he  cried,  holding  out  his  big  hand. 

Mary  started  up  with  a  cry  of  surprise  and  relief, 
clutching  the  baby  to  her  breast. 

"Why,  it's  Eph— Mr.  Larrabee!" 

"  Just  plain  old  Eph's  good  'nuff  fur  me,  Miss  Mary 
— I  mean  Mis'  Martin  Brook.  An'  a  baby,  eh?  Well, 
does  beat  all  how  time  flies!" 

"I  met  Eph  by  the  best  of  good-fortune,"  Martin  ex- 
plained, "and  he  insists  on  our  going  to  his  house." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  Mary  said,  smiling  through  her 
tears. 

287 


Martin    Brook 

"Well,  so  be  I,"  chuckled  Eph.  "Git  yer  things  an' 
come  right  along.     This  ain't  no  settin'-room." 

"We  can  stay  at  your  house  to-night?"  Mary  asked. 

"To-night?"  Eph  said,  heartily.  "You're  goin'  to 
stay  there  just  as  long  as  you  want  to  stay.  You 
can't  cart  3Tour  goods  in  the  rain,  an'  you  can't  get 
your  house  settled  in  a  minute,  can  ye?" 

Ketchum  stood  silently  behind  his  desk.  Larrabee 
turned  from  Mary  to  him. 

"Mebbe  they's  some  charge  fer  the  use  of  this  chair," 
he  said,  sarcastically.  "  If  there  is,  Mr.  Ketchum,  you 
kin  put  it  down  against  my  account.  I  owe  ye  one, 
ye  know,  an'  3Te  might's  well  make  it  two.  Oh,  I'll 
pay  it  some  day!" 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Martin  interposed,  "  to  have  occasioned 
Brother  Ketchum  any  trouble." 

Ketchum's  jaws  snapped  together.  "I  guess  you'll 
have  trouble  enough  to  make  up  for  it  before  your  year's 
up,"  he  said. 

Martin  made  no  response.  Sick  at  heart,  he  carried 
the  baby  from  the  store  and  walked  along  the  drenched 
street.  A  gust  of  wind  swept  around  the  corner  and 
nearly  lifted  Mary  off  her  feet. 

"It's  only  a  step  to  our  house  in  nice  weather,"  Eph 
said,  in  loyal  defence  of  his  town,  "  but  this  ain't  nachul 
weather." 

"Are  you  sure  that  we  won't  inconvenience  your 
wife?"  Mary  asked. 

"Why,  you're  welcome  as  'sparagus  in  spring.  We 
don't  make  no  fuss  'bout  company — just  open  the  door, 
and  shove  'em  right  in.  Gosh!  but  how  you  have 
growed  since  I  first  knowed  you.  An'  I  feel  older,  too, 
sence  enterin'  the  holy  estate  o'  mat'mony.  Sorry 
Martin  couldn't  ha'  been  here  to  do  it,  but  my  wife 
bein'  Cong'gational,  got  her  minister  to  marry  us. 
He's    real    smart.     Baby    got    any    teeth    yet?    One? 

288 


Martin    Brook 

That's  nice.  I  lost  one  o'  my  grindin'  teeth  las'  fall. 
Ached  some,  an'  I  had  it  out.  Here  we  be,"  and  he 
flung  the  gate  back  wide. 

With  noisy  hospitality,  he  led  them  on  to  the  porch 
and  threw  the  door  open. 

"Wife!"  he  called.  "Fetched  ye  some  comp'ny!" 
as  he  pushed  them  in  before  him. 

An  exclamation  of  glad  surprise  preceded  a  figure 
in  a  check  gingham  apron,  as  Mrs.  Larrabee  came 
running  up  with  arms  extended. 

"Mrs.  Dalton!"  Martin  cried,  as  Mary's  face  dis- 
appeared in  a  smothering  embrace. 

"Mis'  Dalton  that  was,  Mis'  Larrabee  that  is,"  Eph 
said,  with  pride.     "  I  told  ye  she'd  be  glad  to  see  ye." 


Chapter  X 

"NOW,  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Eph  Lar- 
rabee,  stretching  his  long  legs  and  crossing  his  big  feet, 
as  he  sat  by  his  own  fireside,  with  Martin  in  another 
"rocker"  by  him.  "We  won't  do  anything  to-day — 
jest  talk.  Too  all-fired  rainy.  Wait  till  to-morrer, 
an'  I'll  cart  your  goods,  an'  'twon't  cost  37ou  a  cent." 

Mrs.  Larrabee  had  taken  Mary  and  the  baby  up- 
stairs into  her  own  room,  and  was  shaking  out  the 
damp  garments  and  arraying  Alary  in  an  outfit  of  her 
own  clothes.  They  had  cried  together  and  laughed 
together  until  they  were  settled  into  a  calm  frame  of 
mind.  Mary  had  told  of  Ketchum's  cruelty  to  Martin, 
and  of  her  own  disgust  and  dismay.  She  found  sym- 
pathetic ears  into  which  to  pour  her  story.  "  I  believe," 
she  said,  "  I  shall  hate  the  very  smell  of  salt  codfish  the 
rest  of  my  life.  I  shall  always  think  of  that  terrible 
store  when  I  see  a  fish." 

"An'  Mr.  Brook's  so  fond  o'  fish,  the  way  I  fix  it, 
too,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton,  s3Tmpathetically.  "But  don't 
mind  that.  I  know  how  it  seems.  When  I  lost  my 
first  husband,  I  thought  I'd  never  fry  doughnuts 
agin — he  liked  'em  so ;  but  Mr.  Larrabee's  fond  of  'em 
too,  so  I  kinder  forced  myself  to  make  'em.  We  git 
used  to  things."  She  was  dr\'ing  Mary's  pelisse  and 
smoothing  it  out.  "My!  But  ain't  this  right  in  st3Tle! 
My  brother's  wife's  got  one.  I  expect  they're  wearin' 
'em  considerable." 

"Yes,    they're    very    convenient.     I    hope   the   rain 

290 


Martin    Brook 

hasn't  hurt  it,"  Mary  said,  as  she  released  baby  from 
his  wrappings,  while  Mrs.  Larrabee  watched  him  with 
smiling  face. 

" Looks  jest  like  his  pa;  but  he  favors  you  some  'bout 
the  eyes/'  she  said,  judicially.  "Now,  you  make  your- 
self comf'table,  an'  I'll  go  down  an'  finish  my  work, 
so's  we  can  visit.     I  know  what  Mr.  Brook  likes  to  eat." 

"I  will  help  you  as  soon  as  baby  is  asleep,"  Mary 
said. 

"You  won't  do  nothin'  o'  the  kind,"  her  hostess  re- 
plied. "You  can  come  right  down  to  the  settin'-room 
an'  visit  with  Mr.  Larrabee,  soon's  you're  free,  but  not 
a  stitch  o'  work  do  you  do  in  my  house.  My  sakes! 
but  ain't  it  nice  to  have  you  an'  Mr.  Brook  here!"  She 
kissed  the  baby  and  went  down-stairs.  When  Mary 
came  down,  she  found  that  all  the  necessary  plans  had 
been  agreed  upon  by  the  men  regarding  the  fitting  up 
of  the  parsonage. 

"  Me  an'  my  wife's  brother's  in  the  butter  an'  egg  an' 
produce  business,"  Eph  explained  to  Mary.  "That's 
how  I  come  to  meet  the  present  Mis'  Larrabee,  you 
know,  bein'  'round  so  much  like  with  him,  an'  we've 
got  horses  an'  rigs.  I'll  go  down  to  the  warehouse, 
soon's  it  lets  up  a  speck,  an'  show  you  'round,  Martin. 
Then  we'll  go  over  to  the  parsonage  an'  see  what's 
got  to  be  done  there  to  fix  it  up.  An'  you  stay  right 
here,"  to  Mary.  "It's  a  wonder  I  ain't  out  on  a  trip, 
over  to  Brunswick  an'  Berlin,  but  you  caught  me  jest 
in  time.  I  couldn't  hardly  keep  from  laughin'  when 
I  see  you  an"  Martin  hadn't  heard  who  Mis'  Larrabee 
was,  an'  I  concluded  I  s'prise  you  some.  If  I'd  been  a 
Meth'dis',  I'd  a  knowed  you  was  expected,  but  bein' 
as  it  is,  it's  all  right.     Baby  asleep?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "but  you  mustn't  let  us  interfere 
with  your  business,  if  you  are  ready  for  a  trip  into  the 
country." 

291 


Martin    Brook 

Eph  laughed.  "Guess  brother-in-law  kin  do  the 
buy  in'  this  week.  Have  you  heard  from  yer  folks 
lately?"  His  face  quickly  changed  its  expression. 
He  had  spoken  in  a  thoughtless  way.  He  saw  his 
blunder  and  tried  to  retrieve  himself :  "  I  mean,  folks  up 
Keeseville  way — "  Then,  gravely :  "I  heered  about — 
about  your  loss." 

"There  is  scarcely  time  to  hear  from  Keeseville/' 
Mary  smiled.  "  Can  you  tell  us  of  the  people  in  Sandy 
Hill?     I  know  of  the  change  at  Elmhurst." 

"Why,"  he  said,  with  energetic  relief,  "sence  I  come 
away,  jest  after  Martin  was— jest  after  he  left — I  hain't 
kep'  up  no  what  you  might  call  reg'lar  correspondence 
with  the  jedge.  Him  an'  me  agreed  to  sep'rate.  I 
tole  him  he  might  be  a  jedge  an'  all  that,  but  so 
fur  as  bein'  right  was  concerned,  I  thought  he  was 
wrong.  So  I  quit,  an'  sence  then  I've  prospered  pretty 
fair.  Own  this  place  an'  some  consider'ble  truck,  one 
way  'n'  nuther — me  an'  brother-in-law  j'intly.  Oh," 
he  laughed,  "  we  got  'nuff  to  eat,  ye  needn't  worry  'bout 
that."     He  rubbed  his  chin  gleefully. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  Martin  said,  "that  you  have  done 
so  well." 

"Ever  hear  'bout  that  old  Enoch?"  he  asked. 
"Not  since — "  Martin  paused. 

"Not  sence  you  helped  him  on,  eh?."  Eph  suggested, 
shrewdly.  Martin  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  Oh,  I  know 
'bout  that,  fur  he's  been  here  sence  then.  He's  pilotin' 
nuther  batch,"  he  added,  oracularly.  "Me  an'  Chiches- 
ter is  causin'  the  eagle  to  scream  some  consider'ble.  I 
alius  go  out  empty,  when  I  drive  up  north,  you  know, 
'ceptin'  bags  o'  feed  an'  crates."  He  smiled  wisely. 
"You  help  the — you  help  them?"  Martin  asked. 
"Well,  so  Enoch  says.  I  dunno  nothin'  myself. 
The  ole  man  is  workin'  quite  a  brisk  trade,  seem*  how 
fur  he  has  to  travel."  ^fif 

292 


Martin    Brook 

"Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  be  arrested?"  Mary  asked. 

"Well/'  he  replied,  slowly,  "there  is  some  men  here 
that  would  like  to  get  me  out  of  the  produce  business. 
You  hit  one  of  'em  the  first  thing." 

"Brother  Ketchum?"  Martin  queried. 

"I  dunno  what  he's  'brother'  to  — not  in  Mary's 
presence,  anyhow.  Might  make  her  mad  if  I  said ;  but 
he's  the  man.  Look  out  for  him,  if  you  hain't  changed 
yer  views — an'  I  guess  ye  hain't." 

Mrs.  Dalton  came  bustling  in. 

"I  know  ye  must  be  half  starved,"  she  said.  "You 
come  right  out  and  get  a  bite.  I  hain't  made  no  fuss- 
just  put  up  a  leaf  o'  table  and  got  some  coffee  and  things. 
While  you're  eatin',  I'll  run  up  an'  see  if  baby's  all 
right.     Eph,  you  take  'em  right  out." 

This  was  only  a  beginning,  for  nearly  a  week  was 
consumed  in  "  settling  "  the  parsonage ;  and  during  that 
time  Martin  and  Mary  found  that  there  were  many, 
very  many,  noble-hearted  people  in  their  church,  who 
were  indignant  at  the  conduct  of  Ketchum.  The  un- 
derstanding had  been  that  he  was  to  receive  the  new 
preacher,  and  his  failure  to  do  this  increased  his  un- 
popularity, especially  outside  of  the  Church  lines.  But 
as  he  was  "comfortably  rich,"  and  a  leading  steward, 
he  had  a  following.  Martin  also  learned  that  the  anti- 
slavery  cause  was  regarded  as  a  menace  to  business 
in  a  town  where  certain  kinds  of  manufacturing  were 
beginning  to  command  a  profitable  Southern  trade, 
and  Mary's  practical  sense  came  into  action.  In  the 
first  flush  of  her  gratitude  to  those  who  were  kind  to 
them,  and  who  helped  to  fill  the  church  with  a  sym- 
pathetic and  admiring  audience— especially  at  evening 
service — she  spoke  cautioningly  to  Martin.  She  recalled 
the  good  bishop's  sound  advice. 

"Do  not  give  up  your  principles,  Martin,"  she  said, 
"  and  do  not  think  I  am  speaking  for  myself ;  but  for 

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Martin    Brook 

your  own  sake,  and  baby's,  try  to  repress  your  opin- 
ions." 

"  I  came  here/'  Martin  replied,  "  with  that  intention. 
I  was  resolved  to  be  more  guarded  in  my  speech;  but 
Brother  Ketchum's  treatment  of  you — " 

"  Let  us  forget  that  entirely/'  she  urged. 

And  for  several  months  the  clouds  were  lifted  from 
them.  The  whole-souled  members  of  the  church  made 
the  parsonage  their  stopping-place  on  every  possible 
occasion.  The  young  folks,  particularly,  manifested 
a  liking  for  Martin,  and  the  young  women  of  the  con- 
gregation found  in  Mary  an  adviser  in  their  youthful 
affairs  of  heart  and  head. 

Chichester  was  returned  from  the  West,  and  his  in- 
fluence for  good  began  to  be  felt  in  the  church.  The 
peace  and  good-cheer  of  these  few  months  were  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  gloom  of  that  first  rainy  day  in  Troy 
that  Mary  almost  feared  to  think  of  their  happier  con- 
dition.    And  baby  was  so  strong  and  well ! 

In  the  midst  of  this  season  of  quiet  joy,  Martin 
came  home  one  day,  pale  and  anxious.  Mary  was  dis- 
turbed by  his  reticence  and  unusual  nervous  sensi- 
tiveness. 

"What  is  it,  Martin?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  heard  something  that  disturbs  me,"  he  said. 
"  Brother  Ketchum  and  Sidney  Graham  are  associated 
in  a  new  manufacturing  business  in  Albany.  They 
have  started  a  straw-hat  factory,  and  their  trade  is 
mainly  with  the  Southern  planters." 

"Why  should  that  distress  you?"  Mary  remarked, 
lightly. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  "but  somehow  Graham 
keeps  coming  into  my  life  for  some  evil  purpose." 

Mary  attempted  to  laugh  away  his  sadness,  but  his 
manner  finally  alarmed  her.  "You  don't  seem  well," 
she  said. 

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Martin    Brook 

"  I  don't  feel  very  well,"  he  admitted.  "  I  believe  I'd 
better  lie  down  for  a  time. " 

All  that  night  Martin  tossed  and  groaned  in  fever, 
while  Mary  vainly  tried  to  allay  his  restlessness.  The 
next  day  she  sent  for  the  doctor,  whose  face,  as  he 
watched  the  patient,  was  not  reassuring. 

"What  is  it,  doctor?"  she  asked,  following  him  into 
the  hall.  "  Tell  me  the  truth.  I  am  a  doctor's  daughter 
and  I  think  I  recognize  some  of  these  symptoms." 

"You  have  had  scarlet-fever?" 

Mary's  heart  sank.     "  Yes,  years  ago,"  she  said. 

"  There  are  a  number  of  cases  in  the  city.  Let  us 
hope  that  Mr.  Brook  will  show  improvement  to-morrow. 
I  do  not  feel  like  giving  an  opinion  now.  Should  he 
not  improve,  you  may  need  help,  for  your  own  sake, 
just  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit.  Is  there  some  one  you  can 
call  in?" 

"Some  one?"  Mary  repeated,  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"You  really  don't  think  my  husband  is  going  to  be 
seriously  ill?     And  baby?     Why,  doctor — " 

"His  condition  may  not  justify  this  alarm,  but  re- 
member j^our  own  self.  Much  depends  on  you.  I 
merely  suggested  the  possible  need  of  help." 

Mary's  face  showed  the  courage  that  was  in  her. 

"Mrs.  Larrabee  would  come,"  she  said,  once  more 
outwardly  calm.     "No  one  could  be  more  comforting." 

And  before  the  week  was  ended  Mrs.  Larrabee  had 
been  called  in,  and  had  taken  possession  of  the  parson- 
age in  her  confident  way. 

"Bless  you,  child,"  she  said,  twisting  her  hands  in 
her  apron,  "  'tain't  nothin'.  I  had  it  when  I  was  a 
girl.  You  just  stop  worry  in'.  I'll  run  the  house.  My 
brother's  wife '11  look  after  Eph." 

She  proved,  indeed,  to  be  the  faithful  friend,  always 
near  during  the  days  and  nights  of  agony  that  followed, 
while  the  baby  passed  safely  through  the  fever,  and 

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Martin    Brook 

Martin  la}'  in  the  grasp  of  death,  as  only  the  strong  can 
He  when  smitten  in  their  strength.  She  was  still  there 
when  at  last  Mary,  worn  out  with  ceaseless  watching 
and  care,  reached  the  verge  of  exhaustion,  while  Mar- 
tin's fever  was  yet  at  its  height. 

"Now  you  just  get  a  minute's  sleep,  dear/'  Mrs. 
Larrabee  said,  "and  I'll  set  up.  I'll  call  you  if  there's 
the  least  mite  of  change.  He  ain't  sensin'  a  thing, 
and  I'll  do  everything  that's  needed." 

"The  doctor  said  the  crisis  was  near,"  Mary  pleaded. 
"  I  must  stay.     Please  let  me  stay. " 

"There  ain't  no  use  in  it,"  Mrs.  Larrabee  insisted, 
gentty  leading  her  away.  "You've  got  to  save  what 
strength  you  got  left.  If  he  comes  to  the  least  mite, 
I'll  call  you  quick." 

She  was  sitting  by  his  bedside,  in  the  semi-darkness 
of  that  early  summer  dawn,  when  Martin  opened  his 
eyes  to  consciousness.  He  saw  Mrs.  Larrabee  and  recog- 
nized her,  but  the  room  was  strange — not  the  little  study 
in  Shelburne — as  he  struggled  back  to  understanding. 

"Mary,"  he  whispered. 

Mrs.  Larrabee  sprang  up. 

"There,  there,  hush!  Go  to  sleep,"  she  said,  as  to 
an  infant. 

"Mary,"  Martin  repeated,  with  feeble  insistence. 

Mrs.  Larrabee  hurried  out.  "He's  come  to,"  she 
said,  gently  waking  Mary.  "I  guess  3Tou'd  better 
kind  o'  speak  to  him." 

Mary  hastened  in,  and  knelt  by  the  bed.  "Martin, 
dear  heart!     Do  you  know  me?" 

Martin  weakty  laid  his  hand  on  her  bowed  head. 

"Mary!"  he  sighed,  like  a  tired,  contented  child, 
and  slept. 

Carefully  she  rose  by  slow  degrees,  and  sat  waiting 
for  the  return  of  reason.  The  hours  passed,  the  doctor 
came,  and  smiled  and  nodded. 

296 


Martin    Brook 

"Thank  God!"  she  whispered. 

"You  have  done  this/'  the  doctor  said,  "by  your 
good  nursing.  Now  he  will  need  only  Mrs.  Larrabee's 
care.     You  must  go  and  rest." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Wait  till  he  speaks  to  me." 

Another  hour  passed.  Suddenly  Martin  opened 
his  eyes,  but  did  not  notice  her  or  speak.  He  was 
watching  the  open  space  beyond  the  bed,  and  seemed 
to  follow  the  movement  of  something  invisible  to  her. 
His  look  was  eager.  His  breath  came  quick.  Mary 
started  to  call  Mrs.  Larrabee. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  in  his  natural  voice,  "  don't  be  fright- 
ened. He  is  gone.  I  shall  live."  He  dropped  back 
restf ully,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

She  sank  to  the  floor,  overwhelmed. 

The  period  of  waiting  that  ensued,  with  alternations 
of  fear  and  hope,  was  harder  to  bear  than  those  dreadful 
days  when  he  tossed  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  There 
came  brief  intervals  of  lucid  wakefulness  and  then 
long  moments  of  quiet  sleep.  Gradually  he  regained 
strength,  only  to  feel  the  weakness  of  that  first  stage  of 
convalescence  which  is  more  hopeless  than  illness. 

Yet  with  each  passing  day  he  made  some  measure  of 
recovery,  until  the  time  when,  sitting  hand  in  hand, 
Mary  felt  that  he  was  strong  enough  to  be  told  of  the 
love  shown  for  him  by  the  people  of  his  church,  by  the 
Larrabees,  and  Mr.  Chichester. 

"  We  have  lacked  nothing,  Martin,"  she  said.  "  They 
have  been  very  good  to  us." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It  almost  makes  me  reconciled 
to  this  affliction  to  hear  such  reports — if  it  wasn't  for 
the  suffering  you  have  had  to  bear. " 

"Hush,  dear,"  she  said.  "We  are  one  in  sickness 
and  in  health." 

"  But  I  am  always  the  one  who  brings  trouble,  and 
yet  I  am  always  the  one  to  receive  benefits." 

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Martin    Brook 

"  You  never  bring  trouble ;  and  if  you  receive  benefits, 
that  is  because  you  deserve  them/'  she  said,  stroking 
his  wasted  hand.  "  Now,  you  must  stop  being  self- 
condemnatory,  and  grow  strong  again  to  resume  your 
work." 

"My  work/'  he  said,  introspectively.  "Yes,  that  is 
true."  He  turned  more  eagerly  to  her.  "Mary,  did 
you  see  that  contest?" 

"  What  contest?"  she  asked,  fearing  that  he  was  over- 
tired.    " Please  rest  now." 

"I  am  sure  I  was  awake  and  rational,"  he  went  on. 
"That  morning — when  was  it? — the  day  I  came  back 
to  life,  you  know.  I  saw  the  clouds  open  and  a  figure 
in  black  approach  me.  You  were  here  by  my  side ;  the 
room  was  just  as  distinct  as  it  is  now.  The  figure  said : 
'He  has  lost  faith/  and  laughed.  Then  came  a  great 
rustling,  as  of  millions  of  wings  beating  the  air.  A 
figure  in  white  flew  into  the  room.  It  was  dazzling 
in  its  purit}?.  It  said :  '  He  has  not  lost  faith.  I  am 
the  Spirit  of  All  Life.  There  is  work  for  him  to  do/ 
And  they  fought.  The  one  in  white  hurled  the  one  in 
black  down — down — down.  It  seemed  an  infinite  abyss. 
Then  the  Spirit  of  All  Life  said,  touching  me  on  the 
forehead :  '  Arise ! '  I  followed  the  spirit  for  millions  of 
miles,  and  I  was  very  weary.  Then  we  stopped,  and  I 
saw  a  vast  plain,  on  which  there  were  piled  great  heaps 
of  broken  chains,  and  a  host  of  people  shouting,  as  if 
in  praise.  But  I  saw  below  them  a  countless  array  of 
stones,  shining  in  the  light,  like  the  headstones  of 
graves.  A  voice  cried  to  me:  'Go  to  your  work!' 
Oh,  I  was  so  tired,  but  I  had  to  climb  a  high  mountain, 
where  there  were  serpents  and  wild  beasts  that  chased 
me  but  did  not  harm  me.  And  then  a  globe  of  light 
flashed  into  my  eyes  and  I  awoke  here,  in  this  little 
room,  with  your  dear  face  shining  on  me  with  the  re- 
flection of  that  light." 

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Martin    Brook 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

She  took  his  thin  hands  in  hers  and  covered  them  with 
kisses. 

The  reception  by  his  congregation,  the  first  Sunday 
after  Martin's  recovery,  was  most  gratifying  to  him. 
His  text  was  from  Isaiah:  "Learn  to  do  well;  seek 
judgment,  relieve  the  oppressed,  judge  the  fatherless, 
plead  for  the  widow/' 

In  all  his  discourses  since  coming  to  Troy,  he  had 
not  once  alluded  to  slavery;  and  this  sermon  was  but 
an  exhortation  to  brotherly  kindness.  He  revealed 
his  gratitude  to  the  people,  who  had  been  so  generously 
thoughtful  of  him  and  his  family,  by  delicate  indirec- 
tion, yet  in  a  manner  to  show  that  such  a  spirit  of  Tight- 
ness might  be  carried  into  our  daily  lives.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  had,  indeed,  sought  and  found  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  on  earth,  in  the  great  blessing  of  love. 

The  audience,  moved  to  tears,  sat  in  the  hush  of  ap- 
proving and  sustaining  sympathy,  as  he  closed  the 
Bible  and  said:  " Let  us  pray."  The  atmosphere  was 
laden  with  a  generous  impulse.  Men  felt  strengthened 
for  the  labors  of  the  week;  women  vowed  themselves 
anew  to  faithfulness  in  their  duties  for  the  cause  of 
humanity  and  the  Church.  All  were  bowed  in  silent 
prayer,  while  Martin's  subdued  tones  floated  out  upon 
the  air. 

Harmony  rested  on  the  hearts  of  those  who  listened 
— rested  on  the  heart  of  each,  excepting  one,  and  one 
only,  in  that  throng  of  worshipers. 

Jabez  Ketchum  sat  in  a  conspicuous  pew,  near  the 
centre  of  the  church,  with  lowering  face.  Martin  had 
angered  him  by  the  mention  of  man's  duty  to  his  fellow- 
men.  Sensitive  to  his  own  importance  in  the  commu- 
nity, he  realized,  as  never  before,  the  public  disapproval 
of  his  conduct.     He  felt,  also,  that  the  eyes  of  the  audi- 

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Martin    Brook 

ence  had  been  turned  on  him  more  than  once  during 
the  sermon,  for  his  continued  opposition  to  the  pastor 
of  his  church.  Now  he  was  angry  with  himself  and 
all  the  world.  In  his  suit  of  Sunday  broadcloth,  with 
his  big  ivo^-headed  cane  held  in  front  of  him,  Ketchum 
defied  church  precedent  and  sat  bolt  upright. 

Martin,  filled  with  the  desire  to  include  all  men  in 
his  invocation,  asked  for  divine  mercy,  as  from  a  per- 
sonal God. 

"Oh,  our  Heavenly  Father/'  he  pleaded,  with  eyes 
closed  and  face  upturned,  his  hands  folded  before  him 
on  the  sacred  Word,  "  we  beseech  Thee,  in  Thine  own 
good  time,  even  as  the  inspired  prophet  has  said,  to 
help  the  oppressed.  Our  land  is  groaning  with  the 
burdens  of  millions  to  whom  the  Bible  is  denied  by  our 
inhuman  laws.  Let  Thy  light  shine;  and  we  pray 
Thee  to  strike  the  shackles  from  the  hands  of  the  op- 
pressed in  this  fair  country,  and  let  the  slave  go  free. 
We  pray  Thee — " 

Ketchum  jumped  to  his  feet,  every  muscle  in  his  gaunt 
form  trembling  in  wrath. 

He  struck  his  cane  on  the  floor  with  a  resounding 
whack.     His  voice  rang  out : 

"We've  had  enough  of  niggerism  in  this  church! 
If  you've  got  any  of  God's  word,  give  it  to  us." 

A  rustle  of  amazement  ran  through  the  house  like  a 
wave  as  every  head  was  lifted. 

Martin  sprang  from  his  knees,  and  with  one  whirling 
gesture  dashed  the  Bible  open. 

"God's  word?"  he  cried.  "Then  here  it  is:  'He 
that  stealeth  a  man,  and  selleth  him,  or  if  he  be  found 
in  his  hand,  he  shall  surely  be  put  to  death." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  with  arm  uplifted.  A  deathlike 
silence  reigned.  Slowly  he  brought  his  arm  down 
with  finger  pointed  directly  at  Ketchum,  and  held  the 
man  abashed  at  the  unexpected  condemnation. 

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Martin    Brook 

Under  the  blaze  of  Martin's  eyes,  Ketchum  seemed  to 
shrivel. 

"  Hi  l"  shouted  some  one  in  the  gallery.  "  You  can't 
fool  with  Martin  Brook.  He  knows  the  Bible  from  which 
to  t'other!" 

A  murmur  of  approval  almost  like  applause  sounded 
in  the  church,  as  the  people  looked  up  and  saw  Eph 
Larrabee  trying  to  sink  out  of  sight  behind  the  back 
of  a  pew.  "  Gosh ! "  he  said,  in  a  frightened  tone,  "  come 
near  forgettin'  where  I  was!" 


Chapter  XI 

An  open  rupture  in  Martin's  church  followed  his 
rebuke  of  Ketchum.  The  official  board,  led  by  this 
man,  assumed  an  attitude  of  hostility;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  people,  especially  the  younger  mem- 
bers and  attendants,  were  friendly  to  Martin.  Outside 
of  the  societ3^,  Chichester's  influence  was  felt,  and  Eph 
Larrabee  expressed  a  popular  sentiment  when  he  said : 
"  Martin  Brook's  all  right.  He  knows  more'n  any  o' 
them  enemies  o'  his'n  kin  pack  in  a  wheel barrer."  A 
revival  was  begun  early  in  the  winter,  and  scores  of 
names  were  added  to  the  roll  of  probationers.  In  this 
sense,  Martin  was  vindicated. 

But  a  condition  existed  which  threatened  to  create 
a  permanent  schism.  The  Conference  —  which  was 
held  each  year  in  a  different  town — was  announced 
to  meet  this  spring  in  Martin's  church,  at  Troy.  A 
quarrel  between  the  official  board  and  the  pastor  was 
peculiarly  distressing  at  such  a  time. 

Ketchum  attempted  to  prove  Martin  in  the  wrong; 
but,  failing  to  secure  the  support  of  a  majority  of  the 
people,  a  great  many  of  wThom  disapproved  of  Martin's 
anti-slavery  views,  and  3^et  admired  him  as  a  man 
and  a  fighter,  Ketchum  resolved  on  drastic  measures. 
He  declared  that  the  board  must  expel  the  preacher 
from  this  pulpit.  He  stirred  up  a  spirit  of  antagonism 
against  Martin,  among  the  business  men  of  the  city, 
in  which  work  he  had  the  maliciously  cunning  counsel 
of  Graham,  his  partner  in  the  hat  factory  at  Albany. 

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Martin    Brook 

A  plan  was  devised  whereby  the  onus  of  the  trouble 
should  appear  to  rest  on  Martin,  and  then  he  awaited 
the  time  for  its  divulging. 

Martin  became  conscious  that  there  was  a  secret 
movement  on  foot.  The  official  board,  who  held  the 
power  to  regulate  salaries,  decide  on  the  opening  of 
the  church  edifice  on  special  occasions,  and  determine 
all  material  affairs,  now  showed  a  disposition  to  avoid 
him.  Besides,  he  felt  a  growing  dissatisfaction  in  his 
own  mind  with  the  policy  of  the  Methodist  Church  at 
large  on  the  question  of  slavery. 

He  was  in  this  state  of  perturbation  when  the  time 
arrived  for  the  final  meeting  of  the  board  before  the  as- 
sembling of  the  annual  Conference.  His  first  intima- 
tion of  the  intentions  of  the  board  was  a  remark  by  one 
of  the  members  at  that  session. 

"I'm  afraid,  Brother  Brook,  that  our  church  is  suf- 
fering because  of  your  peculiar  conduct." 

"My  peculiar  conduct?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ketchum.  "  Your  unministerial  and  un- 
christian conduct." 

"  Will  you  explain  your  meaning?"  Martin  demanded. 

"I  mean  that  I'm  goin'  to  prefer  charges  against 
you  at  the  Conference,"  Ketchum  answered. 

"Without  first  allowing  me  a  hearing  before  this 
local  body?" 

"No,"  said  the  presiding  elder.  "You  can  make 
your  statement." 

"My  statement?"  Martin  said.  But  in  a  moment 
he  was  calm.     He  realized  the  need  of  self-possession. 

"I  have  always  meant  well,"  he  said;  and,  as  in  a 
vision,  he  saw  himself  back  in  Judge  Northcote's 
library,  responding  to  the  question  of  right  and  wrong. 
"I  can  see  now  that  I  have  erred  in  several  respects. 
But  my  usefulness  is  not  ended.  This  society  has  not 
suffered   under  my  ministry,   nor  will  it  suffer.     We 

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Martin    Brook 

have  had  a  glorious  revival  of  religion,  and  have  added 
many  souls  to  the  church.  When  I  came  here,  I  was 
determined  to  say  but  little  on  the  subject  of  slavery. 
My  reception  was  not  cordial. "  He  looked  Mr.  Ketchum 
in  the  eye.  "  I  was,  perhaps,  too  hasty  in  my  feelings, 
when  the  subject  of  my  political  views  was  brought 
up  in  an  unlooked-for  and  inexcusable  manner.  This 
brother  took  the  highest  prescriptive  grounds.  He  has 
since  then  gone  so  far  as  to  forbid  me  to  speak  on 
the  theme  at  all.  I  cannot  permit  any  man  to  dictate 
a  course  in  my  ministerial  capacity.  But  I  admit  that 
instead  of  giving  him  a  mild  reply,  as  I  ought  to  have 
done,  I  answered  him  sharply,  impulsively  —  I  may 
add,  convincingly  —  that  Sunday  from  the  holy  desk. 
Therein  I  erred,  so  far  as  Christian  courtesy  is  con- 
cerned, but  not  in  the  propounding  of  a  truth.  Since 
that  time,  this  brother  has  raised  a  mighty  storm 
against  me.  By  the  grace  of  God,  and  through  the 
aid  of  my  personal  friends,  some  of  whom  are  not 
members  of  the  church — " 

"Why  don't  you  convert  Chichester ?"  Ketchum 
sneered. 

"Mr.  Chichester  says  publicly  he  does  not  join  our 
connection  because  you  axe  a  leading  member  of  it," 
Martin  flashed. 

"Oh!"  said  one  of  the  trustees,  smiling  behind  his 
hand. 

"That  isn't  a  very  Christian  spirit,"  another  member 
remarked,  frowningly. 

"True,"  Martin  replied,  quickly,  "and  I  beg  Brother 
Ketchum's  pardon.  I  regret  my  retort.  I  censure  no 
one  but  myself.  It  is  not  for  me  to  correct  the  errors 
of  others.  My  own  I  deephT  deplore.  But  on  one 
point  I  wish  to  be  distinctly,  clearly  understood :  I  deem 
it  right  and  my  duty  to  oppose  slavery.  Heaven  forbid 
that  I  shall  cease  to  oppose  it  while  I  live  and  the  curse 

304 


Martin    Brook 

exists.  And  in  order  to  do  this  without  endangering 
the  church  of  my  choice,  I  am  resolved  to  retire  from 
this  pulpit  next  May,  when  my  year  expires.  Brothers, 
I  bid  you  good-day." 

He  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"Hold  on/'  said  Ketchum.  "That  won't  do.  Of 
course  we  won't  let  you  come  back  here  another  year, 
but  we  want  you  to  understand  that  you  can't  preach 
ab'lishionism  in  this  pulpit  while  you  do  remain — 
from  now  till  Conference." 

Martin  paused.  "  I  shall  preach  God's  word,  Brother 
Ketchum,  now  and  hereafter." 

"Does  that  mean  your  fanatical  politics?"  Ketchum 
demanded,  shutting  his  lips  tightly. 

"You,  of  all  men,  should  know  what  the  Word  de- 
clares," Martin  replied,  a  glitter  in  his  eyes.  "Some 
of  those  utterances  may  not  be  agreeable  to  you." 

"Then  we  shall  close  this  church,"  Ketchum  as- 
serted, "until  the  Conference  meets,  and  meanwhile 
stop  your  salary." 

"And  attempt  to  deprive  me  of  my  pulpit?"  Martin 
asked. 

"  Your  pulpit?    Do  you  think  you  own  this  church?" 

"I  was  sent  here  by  the  Troy  Conference,"  Martin 
said,  in  a  calm,  even  tone,  "without  seeking  the  ap- 
pointment— " 

"Humph!"  said  Ketchum.  "Graham  told  me  all 
about  that — about  Chichester  and  you  putting  your 
heads  together  and  wire-pulling." 

"It  is  false!"  Martin  declared.  "But  I  shall  not 
discuss  that  point.  I  was  saying  that  I  came  here  in 
obedience  to  my  superiors  in  authority.  The  annual 
Conference  is  a  higher  power  than  this  local  Con- 
ference. You,  as  a  board,  cannot  remove  me  from 
my  pulpit,  and  can  only  prefer  charges  against 
me." 

u  305 


Martin    Brook 

"We'll  do  that,  too,  when  the  time  comes !"  cried 
Ketchum. 

"  You  can  prefer  no  charges  that  I  shall  be  unable  to 
confute/'  said  Martin;  "but  until  I  am  removed  by  the 
higher  Conference,  I  shall  continue  to  preach  in  this 
pulpit.  Let  that  be  clearly  understood.  The  church 
law  is  on  my  side."  He  walked  quickly  from  the 
room. 

"We'll  show  you  about  that,"  said  Ketchum. 

And  he  carried  out  his  threat.  For  on  the  following 
Sunday  Martin  appeared  at  the  church  only  to  find 
the  doors  locked  and  a  placard  posted,  announcing  that 
no  services  would  be  held  here  until  the  assembling  of 
the  annual  Conference. 

A  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  street. 

Martin  turned  his  face  towards  this  standing  congre- 
gation and  preached  to  it  from  the  church  steps.  He 
alluded  briefly  and  regretfully  to  the  contest  now  waging. 
But  his  trials  were  merely  beginning.  Within  a  week 
he  was  forced  to  bear  a  personal  loss.  Chichester 
came  to  him  at  the  parsonage,  with  the  announcement 
of  a  change  in  business. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  Chichester  said,  "to  tell  you 
that  I'm  going  away — going  out  to  Michigan  to  live. 
My  lumbering  interests  require  my  attention.  I  hate 
to  leave  you  to  fight  this  thing  out  alone,  but  }Tou  can 
always  count  on  me  as  a  friend." 

"  I  shall  feel  lonelier  than  ever,"  Martin  said.  "  You 
are  my  strongest  friend,  and  your  going  decides  one 
point:  I  shall  not  only  leave  this  charge,  but  with- 
draw from  the  Methodist  Church." 

"  And  the  ministry?  Then  why  not  go  to  Michigan 
with  me  and  try  the  law— try  business— anything  that 
gives  you  freedom?     I'll  help  3^ou  get  on  your  feet." 

"No,"  said  Martin,  with  a  sigh,  "my  work  is  in  the 
ministry.      The    Wesleyan    Church    is    right    on    the 

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Martin    Brook 

slavery  question— that  society  offers  me  a  pulpit  and  a 

refuge/' 

"  But  it's  poorer  than  one  of  its  own  church  mice. 

You'll  starve—" 

"I  seem  in  a  fair  way  to  that  end  now,  Martin 
replied  with  a  sad  smile.  "  You  know  that  the  board 
has  stopped  my  salary.     But  the  Lord  will  provide.  "^ 

Chichester  sprang  up  in  his  impulsive  way.  1 
admire  vour  pluck  and  faith,"  he  cried,  "but-con- 
found  your  judgment !  The  Lord  seems  to  be  providing 
for  the  other  fellows  just  now." 

"Providing  for  their  destruction,"  Martin  said,  sol- 

emnly. 

~  The  men  clasped  hands.     "God  bless  you!"  Martin 

exclaimed.  Jt 

"Your  blessing  suits  me  well  enough,  Chichester 
declared.  "  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Brook  a  minute. "  They 
went  down  to  the  sitting-room.  "Good-bye,  Mrs. 
Brook  "  Chichester  said.  "Martin  will  tell  you  what 
this  means— I  can't.  But  here's  a  little  letter  I  wrote 
for  Tommy,  about  the  big  black  bears  out  in  Michigan. 
My  address  is  inside— inside  the  letter,  not  the  bears, 
I  mean.     Don't  forget  me." 

And  he  was  gone  before  Mary  could  utter  more  than 
an  amazed  "Good-bye."  She  opened  the  unwafered 
letter  and  found  two  fifty-dollar  bank-notes.  She  look- 
ed at  Martin  through  swimming  eyes.    "  What  does  this 

in 

mean  r 

The  closing  of  the  church  doors  was  a  disheartening 
matter  to  Martin ;  but  when  the  second  Sunday  came 
and  he  found  even  the  iron  gates  in  front  of  the  church 
locked,  the  spirit  of  the  Crusader  was  aroused  in  him. 
He  preached  to  the  people  in  the  street,  standing  on  the 
steps  of  a  private  residence.  And,  as  he  stood  there, 
a  mob  of  men  came  running  down  the  street,  driving 

307 


Martin    Brook 

him  back  into  the  shelter  of  the  doorwa}7,  and  breaking 
up  the  meeting  with  yells  and  laughter. 

Still  he  persisted,  and  spoke  whenever  and  wherever 
he  was  permitted  to  gain*  an  audience,  until,  at  last, 
the  annual  Conference  opened  at  once  its  sessions  and 
the  church  doors. 

Ketchum  was  in  evidence  now,  with  his  charges  of 
" unministerial  conduct." 

In  the  midst  of  profound  excitement  Martin  was 
summoned  before  the  Conference  for  trial.  From 
the  start  he  saw  that  his  case  was  pre- judged.  He 
was  practically  denied  the  right  of  defence.  He  scorned 
to  meet  the  paltry  issue  of  personal  misdemeanor,  and 
demanded  a  public  hearing  on  the  real  cause,  but  he 
was  met  on  every  hand  by  a  studied  refusal  to  grant  him 
the  right  of  the  floor.  He  was  known  to  be  a  master  of 
parliamentary  usage;  he  had  acquired  this  knowledge 
under  Northcote's  instruction,  at  a  time  when  the 
judge  regarded  him  as  a  possible  actor  in  national 
affairs,  and  his  skill  as  a  debater  was  acknowledged 
by  all  who  knew  him.  Now  he  put  that  information 
into  practice.  By  adroit  insistence  he  compelled  a 
recognition  by  the  presiding  bishop,  and  for  one  hour 
he  held  the  Conference  in  silent  admiration  of  his  elo- 
quent and  lucid  exposition  of  his  case.  He  scattered 
the  arguments  of  his  opponents  like  chaff  and  exposed 
their  reasons  for  persecuting  him.  Then,  while  the  spell 
of  his  plea  was  still  upon  his  hearers,  he  demanded  a 
vote.  His  colleagues,  although  differing  on  the  main 
issue  of  slavery,  perceived  the  justice  of  his  individual 
cause. 

With  a  unanimous  voice  the  Conference  ruled :  "  Not 
guilty  of  unministerial  conduct.' ' 

But,  when  he  had  triumphed  over  those  who  sought 
his  expulsion  from  the  Conference  in  disgrace  and  on 
false  charges,  under  disciplinary  laws,  he  still  remained 

308 


Martin    Brook 

unalterable  in  his  decision  to  leave  the  Methodist  Church. 
Having  been  restored,  by  the  action  of  the  Conference, 
to  his  pulpit  for  the  remaining  Sunday  of  his  year  in 
Troy,  he  announced  his  final  sermon. 

On  that  last  day  the  church  was  thronged,  and,  m  the 
moment  of  silence  following  his  sermon,  in  which  he 
had  made  no  allusion  to  his  own  affairs,  he  closed  the 
Bible  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  reading-desk,  and  said : 

"  We  are  living  in  the  Dark  Ages  of  American  exist- 
ence     Future  generations  will  point  to  us,  as  a  people, 
when  our  individual  names  are  forgotten  of  men,  and 
say     'Could  such  things  be?1     They  will  scan  the 
pages  of  our  national  history  with  shuddering  amaze- 
ment.    Thereon  they  will  find  the  record  of  a  monstrous 
crime  and  there  they  will  read  the  names  of  men  we  now 
call  'famous/  but  with  loathing.     They  will  marvel 
among  themselves  that,  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  after  Christ's  message  has  been  for  ages  com- 
prehended by  millions,  there  were  those  to  whom  the 
Bible  was  a  proscribed  book— those  who  were  not  per- 
mitted to  learn  how  to  read  the  Word  of  God.     And  they 
will  turn  in  blank  astonishment  from  the  recorded  fact 
that  Church  and  State  united  in  reprobating  the  acts  of 
those  who  indulged  in  the  public  agitation  of  the  in- 
terests of   the  American  slave.     The  pulpit  and  the 
press  are  muzzled.     We  are  living  in  a  time  when  free- 
dom of  speech  is  but  an  empty  mockery.     We  are  under 
a  tyranny  impracticable  since  the  days  of  Nero.     We 
sit  like  graven  images,  deaf  to  the  cries  of  human  vic- 
tims and  dumb  from  fear.     I,  for  one,  shall  continue  to 
speak,  not  alone  in  behalf  of  the  slave  as  a  rational  and 
immortal  being,  but  against  these  our  own  intelligent 
people  who  are  persisting  in  this  national  disgrace. 
Our  Church  is  guilty  in  the  sight  of  God.     History  will 
declare  it,  and  men  will  wonder  at  our  turpitude. 

"  My  friends— for  some  of  you  are  my  friends,  tried 

309 


Martin    Brook 

and  true — my  voice  falters,  for  my  heart  is  wrung.  I 
stand  here  to  say  farewell  to  you  and  to  the  Church  I 
have  loved  so  long;  for  which  I  have  sought,  as  God 
has  given  me  strength,  to  do  some  little  good.  I  shall 
leave  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  take  up 
my  calling  in  that  society  which  bears  the  name  of 
our  venerated  Wesley.  He  hated  slavery  as  I  hate  it. 
Perhaps  within  the  lines  of  that  organization  I  shall  be 
welcome,  for  I  am  not  welcome  here.  Before  God,  I  am 
guiltless  of  sin,  and  }Tet  I  am  not  held  blameless  here  in 
this  the  house  of  God.  Why?  Because  I  am,  and  shall 
ever  remain,  an  uncompromising  abolitionist!  Fare- 
well!" 

He  sat  down. 

Sobs  were  heard.  There  was  a  shuffling  sound  of  the 
relaxing  of  tense  muscles.  Men  looked  in  men's  faces 
with  questionings.  A  word,  and  the  people  would  have 
risen  in  open  protest  at  Martin's  withdrawal.  But  the 
instant  passed.  There  was  no  leading  member  who 
dared  to  defy  public  sentiment. 

And  a  few  days  later,  when  from  the  same  pulpit 
the  Conference  minutes  were  read,  these  lines  were 
found : 

"Question — Who  have  withdrawn  from  the  connec- 
tion this  3Tear? 

"Answer — Martin  Brook." 

"The  change  has  come,"  Martin  wrote  to  Chichester, 
in  Michigan.  "  I  am  without  a  church.  I  have  taken 
up  the  lance.  I  am  at  last  a  'Crusader/  Mary  and 
I  have  moved  from  the  Methodist  parsonage,  to  make 
way  for  my  successor.  We  are  living  in  a  little  cottage 
on  Ida  Hill.  People  whom  I  befriended  in  former  days 
now  pass  me  by  unnoticed.  I  am  forgotten  by  the  busy 
world." 

But  he  was  not  forgotten  or  blamed  by  Mary.     She 

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Martin    Brook 

burnished  his  shield  with  the  hand  of  love,  and  girded 
on  his  sword  with  a  tenderness  that  bound  her  very  soul 
into  the  armor — pure,  glowing,  spotless  soul  that  it 
was! 

Oh,  the  sweet  patience  of  that  dear  woman!  She 
held  his  hands  clasped  close  in  hers  and  breathed  into 
his  nostrils  the  breath  of  life.  She  could  not  com- 
prehend the  meaning  of  duty  precisely  as  he  did;  and 
her  mother-heart  was  sometimes  divided  on  the  ques- 
tion of  his  duty  to  those  nearest  him.  But  she  loved 
him  as  he  was — with  whatsoever  error  there  might  be  in 
his  judgment — she  loved  him  for  the  love  he  gave  to  her 
— a  woman's  highest  ideal  of  love. 

Many  a  night,  when  he  was  away  from  the  little 
house,  on  an  errand  of  mercy  to  escaping  slaves,  she  sat 
eagerly  watching  for  him,  their  babe  in  her  arms,  dread- 
ing some  calamity.  The  prescience  of  a  nature  keenly 
attuned  to  the  invisible  forces  of  the  unseen  world 
brought  to  her  the  agony  of  apprehensiveness.  She 
knew  that  he  had  joined  Eph  Larrabee  and  the  little 
band  of  abolitionists  in  their  secret  work.  She  knew 
how  fierce  the  feeling  was  in  the  town,  and  she  dreaded 
lest  Martin  should  do  or  say  something  to  bring  on  him 
a  personal  outrage. 

No  longer  the  pastor  of  a  popular  church,  but  only 
the  preacher  in  a  rickety  chapel  in  an  obscure  street, 
before  an  audience  of  poverty-stricken  fanatics,  cursed 
as  abolitionists,  he  completed  the  delivery  of  that  series 
of  sermons  he  had  prepared  in  Shelburne. 

As  this  defiant  work  went  on,  he  began  to  attract 
attention.     The  politicians  heard  of  him  and  frowned. 

"Have  you  heard  that  fellow  who  is  turning  the 
world  upside  down?"  one  man  said  to  his  companion. 

"No.     Who  is  he?    What's  he  doing?" 

"  Why,  that  man  Brook — the  man  who  gave  up  a  good 
appointment  to  join  the  fanatics.     He  preaches  down 

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Martin    Brook 

here  in  a  little  seven-by-nine.     You  ought  to  hear  him, 
though/' 

"Thank  you,  but  I'm  not  in  sympathy  with  that 
cause." 

"Neither  am  I,  but  he's  really  worth  hearing,  just 
the  same." 

Because  of  this  spreading  rumor,  the  day  soon  came 
when  his  meetings  were  declared  to  be  intolerable  by 
the  pro -slavery  party.  Disturbance  of  his  services 
was  encouraged.  Men  rose  in  the  crowded  pews  and 
interrupted  him,  only  to  be  argued  down,  amidst  the 
derision  of  the  believers  in  the  doctrine  of  freedom. 

His  personal  safety  was  menaced,  but  it  was  not 
until  warning  letters  and  open  threats  of  violence 
were  sent  to  his  house  that  Mary's  alarm  became  posi- 
tive terror. 

"Don't  worry,  Mary,"  Martin  said.  "No  one  will 
harm  me.  These  anonymous  letters  are  the  work  of 
cowards." 

"  I  know  that,  Martin,  but  it  is  the  coward  who  strikes 
in  the  dark." 

"Then  I  must  preach  more  boldly  and  defy  them. 
We  should  not  fear  the  arrow  that  flieth  by  night." 

"I  shall  go  with  you,"  she  said,  "whenever  you  go 
out  at  night.     They  may  respect  a  woman." 

One  Sunday  night,  however,  just  after  a  strenuous 
demand  for  silence  had  reached  him,  Mary  was  too  ill 
to  go  to  the  chapel  with  him ;  and  as  he  started  alone 
from  the  house  he  was  overtaken  by  a  stranger,  who 
drew  him  aside  into  the  shadow  of  a  building. 

"Mr.  Brook?"  the  man  inquired. 

"That  is  my  name,"  Martin  said.  "What  do  you 
want?"  He  was  suspicious,  and  put  himself  on  the 
defensive,  compelling  the  stranger  to  step  into  the 
open  street,  where  the  moonlight  revealed  his  unprepos- 
sessing features. 

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Martin    Brook 

"We're  holding  a  meeting  down  yonder/'  the  man 
said,  in  a  whisper,  nodding  towards  the  river,  "and 
we  want  you  there.     You  belong  to  the  U.  G.  ?" 

"The  what?" 

"Underground,  you  know.  We  are  moving  some 
goods." 

"I  am  not  a  member  of  your  organization/'  Martin 
said. 

"  Well,  join  us.     That's  what  we  want. " 

"No.  I  never  join  a  secret  society  of  any  kind," 
Martin  replied. 

The  man  drew  away.  "Well,  anyhow,  you  must 
help  us.  We've  got  a  batch  of  niggers,  and  I  guess 
the  officers  are  watching  us." 

"I  will  do  all  I  can,  in  my  own  way,  but  not  a  step 
will  I  take  at  the  order  of  a  stranger." 

"Oh,  you're  one  of  them  talkers,  eh?  Afraid?  How 
about  those  principles  you  preach?" 

"I  am  not  responsible  to  you  for  what  I  preach  or 
what  I  do,"  Martin  said,  going  on  towards  the  chapel, 
leaving  the  man,  who  swore  at  him. 

Martin  reached  the  meeting-house,  and  had  begun 
his  sermon,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  an 
alarming  sound — the  roar  of  many  voices— from  the 
direction  of  the  river.  Others  heard  it  too.  Several 
persons  in  the  audience  started  up  and  quitted  the  room. 
Still  he  continued  his  address. 

The  sound  grew  louder— nearer.  The  bellowing  took 
definite  form. 

"Down  with  'em!  Down  with  the  black  abolition- 
ists!" 

A  man  came  running  into  the  church.     "They're 
coming!     The  mob!"  he  shouted.      "They've  caught 
a  lot  of  runaways,  and  are  going  to  break  up  this  meet- 
ing.    Run  for  your  lives!"  and  dashed  out  to  the  street. 
For  a  moment  the  audience  sat  immovable  with  fear. 

313 


Martin    Brook 

Then,  as  one  person,  they  rose  and  crushed  their  way 
into  the  narrow  aisles,  blocking  the  passage  to  the  single 
door.  Some  clambered  over  the  backs  of  the  pews, 
in  their  wild  plunge  for  escape. 

In  the  street,  those  who  had  sat  nearest  the  door, 
and  were  now  outside,  turned  in  curiosity  to  watch  the 
struggling  people  in  the  doorway.  They  blocked  the 
egress. 

Within  the  church,  a  screaming,  fighting  mass  of 
frenzied  humanity  wedged  itself  about  the  exit,  tramp- 
ling women  and  children  underfoot. 

Martin  stood  on  the  pulpit  platform,  his  arms  lifted 
and  beating  the  air,  as  he  motioned  the  heedless  crowd 
to  sit  down.  His  voice  was  lost  in  the  tumult.  A  howl- 
ing roar  outside,  answered  by  shrieks  and  shouts  of 
command,  increased  the  terror  of  the  imprisoned  crowd. 

A  shower  of  stones  came  smashing  through  the  win- 
dows, extinguishing  the  lamp  on  the  pulpit  and  all 
but  one  candle  in  the  brackets  on  the  walls.  The  sud- 
den darkness  added  to  the  terror  of  the  fighting  crowd. 

Some  of  the  people  were  hit,  and  their  cries  increased 
the  babel  in  the  church. 

"Down  with  the  abolitionists \" 

The  rioters  tore  the  window-sashes  from  their  fast- 
enings and  flung  them  crashing  into  the  room.  The}' 
forced  an  entrance. 

"  There  he  is  \"  a  voice  cried. 

The  window  nearest  the  pulpit  gave  way  before  a 
swinging  blow,  and  a  man  leaped  to  the  floor.  He 
rushed  up  the  platform,  took  Martin  in  his  arms,  drag- 
ged him  to  the  window,  struggling  and  fighting  for 
his  life ;  shoved  him  out  into  the  darkness,  and  dropped 
down  beside  him. 

"Quick!     Run!"  he  said. 

"Eph  Larrabee!"  Martin  exclaimed.  His  rescuer 
laid  a  hand  on  his  mouth,  pushed  him  in  the  shadow 

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Martin    Brook 

of  the  church,  and  so,  along  the  lane,  vaulting  a  fence 
and  doubling  about  in  their  tracks,  into  a  vacant  barn, 
just  as  the  mob  came  streaming  down  the  alley. 

Eph  Larrabee  darted  out,  raised  his  head  above 
the  fence,  shouting,  "There  he  goes!"  and  ran  towards 
the  street.  He  led  the  mob  across  intervening  lots  and 
down  another  street,  yelling  back  over  his  shoulder, 
urging  them  to  follow  him. 

The  rioters  ceased  their  assault  on  the  church  and 
joined  in  the  pursuit  of  anything— it  mattered  not  who 
or  what.  The  sight  of  a  fleeing  figure,  one  of  their 
own  number,  perhaps,  would  send  them  hooting  on  again. 

Eph  found  an  opportunity  to  evade  them;  and,  now 
that  the  street  before  the  church  was  clear,  cautiously 
returned.  The  place  was  deserted.  By  the  light  of 
the  remaining  candle  he  dimly  saw  the  ruin  the  mob 
had  wrought.  The  door  was  wrenched  from  its  hinges. 
Every  window  was  broken.  The  walls  were  bespat- 
tered with  mud. 

Eph  blew  out  the  light  and  crept  around  to  the  barn. 
"Martin/'  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Martin  came  into  view.     "  Is  that  you,  Eph?" 

"  Yes.  Come  with  me.  Them  devils  is  gone.  We 
must  go  up  to  your  house  and  get  the  wife  and  baby 
and  take  'em  over  to  my  house.  The  mob's  got  off 
the  track,  but  I  guess  you'll  be  safer  visitin'  fur  a  spell." 

They  went  on  silently  and  rapidly  through  the  omi- 
nously silent  street.  They  could  hear  the  bellowing 
of  the  rioters  in  the  distance. 

Mary  had  heard  the  sound.     She  was  out  at  the 
gate,  wild  with  anxiety. 
3  "Martin,"  she  sobbed,  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"There  has  been  trouble,"  he  said.  "Don't  be 
frightened.  It's^all  over.  I  am  not  hurt.  Eph  saved 
me.  He  thinks  we  will  be  safer  at  his  house.  Get 
baby,  and  we  will  go  at  once." 

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Chapter  XII 

FORTUNATELY  for  the  city,  the  passions  of  the 
mob  soon  burned  themselves  to  ashes. 

The  day  following  the  riot  was  bright  with  sun- 
shine. The  city  was  amazed  that  such  a  tragedy 
could  have  occurred  within  its  orderly  limits. 

But  there  was  a  general  feeling  that  the  incitement 
to  such  acts  should  be  done  away  with  in  a  community 
that  boasted  obedience  to  the  law. 

Martin  Brook  was  gravely  censured.  He  was  waited 
on  by  a  delegation  of  prominent  men,  who  told  him 
emphatically  that  he  must  stop  agitating  the  people 
with  his  sermons. 

"Gentlemen/'  Martin  replied,  "in  whose  name  do 
you  speak?" 

"  We  speak  in  our  own  individual  names,  sir." 

"You  have  read  the  Constitution,  of  course.  By 
what  right  do  you  prohibit  freedom  of  speech,  pulpit, 
or  press?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Brook,"  one  of  the  delegation  urged, 
"  we  are  not  attempting  to  interfere  with  3Tour  religious 
services,  but  as  a  matter  of  expedienc}7  we  suggest  a 
more  moderate  tone." 

"Expediency!"  Martin  said,  with  profound  scorn. 
"For  the  sake  of  possible  commercial  gain,  you  are 
willing  to  abate  your  rights  as  law-makers  and  accept 
dictation  from  the  Southern  slave  -  holders.  I  shall 
preach  what  I  believe  to  be  the  truth.  Not  one  of  you 
dares  to  meet  me  in  public  argument.     You  close  the 

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Martin    Brook 

doors  of  your  halls  against  me,  but  I  still  have  a 
pulpit." 

"  The  peril  rests  with  you,  sir/'  the  leader  answered. 

It  was  a  peril.  Martin  could  see  a  form  of  reason 
in  the  public  demand.  For  the  cause  of  the  riot,  he 
learned  to  his  discomfiture,  was  the  attempted  passage 
of  the  band  of  slaves  mentioned  to  him  by  the  stranger 
who  had  stopped  him  on  the  way  to  the  chapel.  This 
man,  a  professional  agitator,  who  made  his  living  by 
such  means,  was  carrying  on  the  trade  of  assisting 
runaways,  taking  whatever  he  could  get  from  the 
anti-slaveryites.  He  was  not,  like  most  of  the  "  Under- 
ground Railroad"  men,  sincere,  self-sacrificing,  and 
honest ;  but  simply  a  trafficker  in  the  necessities  of  these 
poor  wretches.  He  was  known  as  a  "freedom  con- 
tractor/' and  Martin  was  willing  to  admit  that  both 
his  own  and  the  public's  instinctive  aversion  to  such 
a  man  was  justifiable  in  fact. 

The  man  had  been  tracked  and  his  movements  dis- 
covered. His  "  passengers  "  were  overtaken  and  capt- 
ured, though  he  escaped;  but  the  mob,  when  once 
aroused,  had  sought  to  exterminate  all  abolitionists 
at  a  single  blow,  and,  as  the  most  generally  known 
anti-slavery  advocate  in  the  place,  Martin  had  come 
first  to  the  leaders'  minds.  They  assaulted  the  chapel 
because  of  its  availability. 

Thus  it  was  that  Martin  stood  between  two  fires: 
the  pro-slavery  government,  backed  by  the  commercial 
element,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  ultra-fanatical  and 
unprincipled  abolitionists  on  the  other. 

While  he  never  refused  aid  to  an  escaping  slave, 
he  assumed  the  firmer  ground  of  legal,  peaceful  argu- 
ment, whereby  men  might  become  convinced  of  the 
error  of  slavery  through  intellectual  and  moral  edu- 
cation. 

It  was  at  this  moment  in  his  life  that  the  pressure 

317 


Martin    Brook 

of  ostracism  became  almost  unendurable.  His  family 
was  suffering  from  a  lack  of  the  comforts,  even  the 
necessaries,  of  life  ;  and  Mary's  uncomplaining  accept- 
ance of  his  sense  of  right  was  the  bitterest  trial  of  his 
soul.  At  times  he  wavered.  He  was  in  poverty, 
dependent  on  the  charity  of  such  friends  as  the  Lar- 
rabees  and  Chichester.  He  had  wellnigh  reached  the 
border-land  of  despair  when,  one  day,  he  came  upon  an 
essay  on  "Moral  Fortitude"  which  Judge  Northcote 
had  written  for  the  Sandy  Hill  Sentinel  in  those  happy 
days  at  Elmhurst.  It  was  in  the  form  of  a  clipping, 
which  Mary  had  saved  and  placed  between  the  leaves 
of  a  book  which  he  had  never  chanced  to  open.  It  was 
so  full  of  the  true  spirit  of  the  judge  as  Martin  alone 
knew  it,  so  filled  with  genuine  kindliness,  that  the  essay 
moved  him  deeply.  Yet,  at  the  same  time  it  strength- 
ened his  resolve  for  the  Cause.  Again  and  uncon- 
sciously the  conservative  Xorthcote  had  fostered  the 
radicalism  he  had  labored  so  hard  to  avert. 

Martin  fell  to  musing.  The  judge  must  be  a  lonely 
man.  Why  not  write  him  frankly,  admitting  his  own 
love?  He  could,  without  sacrifice  of  principles  or  dig- 
nity, sa}^  something  that  might  cheer  the  solitary  man 
sitting  in  the  magnificent  desolation  of  Elmhurst. 

He  obeyed  this  impulse  and  wrote  a  letter  from  his 
heart.  He  did  not  tell  Mary,  half  in  fear  of  the  result, 
and  secretly  hoping  to  be  able  to  bring  a  ra}-  of  cheer 
into  her  life. 

Days  passed,  but  no  answer  came.  He  had  dis- 
missed the  hope  of  hearing  from  the  judge,  when  Eph 
Larrabee  came  running  into  the  house. 

"Martin,  have  you  seen  this?"  he  called  out,  holding 
up  a  cop3T  of  the  Sandy  Hill  Sentinel. 

Martin  took  the  paper,  as  Mar\T  stepped  to  his  side. 
Before  he  could  turn  the  sheet  away  from  her,  she  had 
read  the  heading  of  the  article. 

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Martin    Brook 

"Judge  Northcote!"  she  exclaimed. 

There  was  no  evading  it  now.     He  read  aloud : 

'"Death  of  Judge  Northcote 

We  stop  the  press,  to  announce  with  profound  regret  to  our 
readers  the  startling  intelligence  of  the  death  of  Judge  Northcote, 
of  Elmhurst,  the  foremost  personage  in  our  village. 

"'Our  wealthiest  and  most  distinguished  citizen,  who  was 
famed  beyond  the  borders  of  our  county  for  his  learning  and 
many  other  admirable  qualities  of  head  and  heart,  passed  sud- 
denly away  from  this  life,  some  time  during  last  night.  The 
exact  hour  of  his  death  is  not  at  present  known  to  us,  but  his 
departure  to  the  Great  Unknown  was  attended  with  remarkable 
incidents. 

From  the  scanty  information  now  obtainable,  owing  to  the 
excitement  at  Elmhurst,  we  are  enabled  to  collect  the  following 
authentic,  though  meagre,  facts  : 

"As  is  well  known  to  our  readers,  Judge  Northcote  was,  in 
his  lifetime,  possessed  of  a  vast  estate.  He  was  never  married. 
The  late  Mrs.  Margaret  Wright,  who  died  without  surviving  is- 
sue, was  his  only  known  relative.  The  judge,  therefore,  leaves 
no  direct  heir  or  near  kindred. 

"Some  years  ago  he  designed  adopting  a  son,  but  owing  to 
a  misunderstanding  between  them,  this  intention  was  not  con- 
summated. We  allude  to  this  circumstance,  not  to  revive  painful 
memories,  but  because  of  its  bearing  on  the  incidents  of  our  es- 
teemed townsman's  death. 

' '  It  now  transpires  that  Judge  Northcote,  on  the  departure  of 
this  young  man,  bequeathed  his  entire  estate,  real  and  personal, 
to  the  great  institution  of  learning  of  which  he  was  an  honored 
alumnus.  Being  a  lawyer  of  acumen,  this  document  was  prepared 
by  his  own  hand  and  duly  attested.  Its  validity,  in  every  detail, 
is  indisputable. 

'  It  appears,  from  the  evidence  thus  far  procured,  that  only  a 
few  days  since  a  letter  was  received  by  the  judge  (the  circum- 
stances justify  this  allusion)  from  the  man  he  designed  making 
his  heir,  and  who  is,  we  believe,  a  minister  in  the  Wesleyan  con- 
nection. The  letter  evidently  made  a  strong  impression  on  the 
mind  of  the  noble  man,  who  was  ever  open  to  the  appeals  of  the 
needy.  It  also  seems  to  have  influenced  him  regarding  the  dis- 
position of  the  estate.  At  all  events,  this  morning,  when  the 
housekeeper  (an  old  and  faithful  attache)  and  the  judge's  body- 

319 


Martin    Brook 

servant  became  alarmed  at  not  receiving  a  summons  from  their 
master,  they  opened  the  library  door  and  entered  the  room. 

"'The  judge  was  seated  at  his  table,  as  in  the  act  of  writing. 
His  head  reclined  on  the  table.  The  servants  thought  he  was 
asleep.     They  sought  to  arouse  him. 

'"  Judge  Northcote  was  dead ! 

"'Beneath  his  still,  cold  hand  lay  an  unfinished  letter.  It 
began  and  ended  thus  : 

'""MY  DEAR  SON, — Long  ago  I  forgave  you  the  seeming 
injustice  to  me.  I  have  loved  you,  and  watched  your  career  with 
deep  solicitude.  When  3Tou  wrote  me  before  the  death  of  '  little 
mother,'  I  was  still  hard  of  will,  but  her  last  words  melted  the  ice 
about  my  poor  heart.  Come  back  to  me,  Martin  I  I  will  try  to 
make  amends  for  my  harshness.  I  am  a  broken,  lonely  old  man, 
but  I  love — " 

"'It  is  easy  to  conjecture  to  whom  the  judge  was  addressing 
this  letter,  and  its  character  is  made  all  the  more  remarkable  by 
the  fact  that  it  reveals  his  latest  intentions.  For  upon  the  table 
lay  a  new  will,  annulling  the  previous  one,  and  bequeathing  the 
entire  estate  to  Martin  Brook. 

'"But  this  new  will  is  unsigned  and  unwitnessed.  The  first 
one  is,  therefore,  the  valid  document. 

"'We  transgress  custom  and  print  this  astonishing  personal 
news,  because  the  facts  must  be  made  public  at  the  inquest,  which 
is  now  in  session. 

" '  Later. — Judge  Northcote  died  from  disease  of  the  heart. 
The  obsequies  will  be  held  day  after  to-morrow.'  " 


Still  grasping  the  paper  in  his  hand,  Martin  got 
up  and  walked  steadily  towards  his  study  door. 

Mary  held  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  followed  a  step 
or  two,  but  stopped.  She  felt  that  this  was  a  moment 
when  he  should  be  alone,  even  from  her.  But  Martin 
turned  around  at  the  door  and  extended  his  hand. 
She  ran  to  him. 

"Oh,  Martin!"  she  said,  and  buried  her  face  on  his 
breast. 

"I  am  glad  he  forgave  me,"  he  whispered.  "Let 
me  have  a  moment,  dear." 

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Martin  Brook 

She  kissed  him.  He  opened  the  door  softly,  as  on 
a  death-chamber,  and  passed  in,  closing  it  gently 
between  them.  She  leaned  against  the  wall,  her  face 
hidden,  forgetful  of  Eph. 

"  'Tain't  's  if  ye  didn't  have  no  friends/'  he  said, 
coming  near  her. 

"Oh,  Eph/'  she  cried,  "Martin  is  50  good!  Why 
has  God  added  this  burden  to  all  he  has  to  carry?" 

"  Well,  I  ain't  able  to  tell  ye  that,  but  I  kin  say  one 
thing :  I'm  awful  sorry  I  fetched  that  paper." 

"Oh,  that  makes  no  difference,"  she  said,  going  to 
little  Tommy,  as  he  came  shyly  into  the  room.  "We 
should  have  learned  of  it  some  time."  She  clasped  the 
child  in  her  arms  and  sobbed.  Tommy  caught  the  in- 
fection of  grief  and  wailed.  The  mother-instinct  assert- 
ed itself.  In  soothing  her  babe  she  gained  mastery  over 
herself. 

Eph  swung  his  hat  to  his  head  with  a  self -condemning 
gesture.  "S'pose  I  can't  do  nothin'  jest  now,  but  's 
long  's  they's  life  in  the  egg  an'  butter  trade  you  sha'n't 
suffer  complete  and  actual  starvation,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,  Eph,"  Mary  said,  as  Eph  went  out. 

She  rocked  Tommy  to  sleep  and  laid  him  on  the  bed. 
Then  she  went  to  the  study  door,  waited,  listened,  and 
knocked  gently. 

"Is it  you,  dear?  Is  Larrabee  gone?"  Martin  asked. 
She  nodded,  and  went  close  to  him.  "Come,"  he  said, 
putting  his  arm  around  her  as  she  stood  by  his  side. 
"  I  have  been  thinking  furiously,  Mary,  these  few  min- 
utes.    I  have  wronged  you  and  our  child — " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips. 

"And  still  you  don't  blame  me?"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand. 

"  I  am  sorry,  for  your  sake,"  she  said. 

" That  chapter  is  forever  ended,"  he  mused.  "From 
the  many  good  gifts  of  my  old  life  I  have  still  the  one 

x  321 


Martin    Brook 

supreme  blessing  of  3Tour  love.  Let  us  say  no  more  of 
what  might  have  been.  The  future  is  to-day,  and  we 
must  live  it  as  best  we  can.  I  am  going  to  tell  3Tou  of  an 
impression  that  has  come  to  my  mind.  There  is  a  great 
spirit  of  revival  going  on  in  this  country,  but  I  cannot 
work  in  my  present  field  and  also  work  as  an  evangelist 
and  do  my  best.  What  do  you  say  to  my  taking  up 
evangelistic  work  solely?  It  may  separate  us  for  a 
little  while,  from  time  to  time,  but  you  can  go  to  the 
Larrabees,  and  we  can  make  our  home  with  them.  It 
isn't  a  remunerative  field  to  labor  in,  but  I  seem  called 
to  enter  it.  I  shall  not  give  up  my  principles,  but  we 
must  live ;  and  this  new  plan  offers  a  living,  now  that 
I  have  no  church." 

"  I  will  agree  to  any  plan  you  make/'  she  said. 

"  But  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  nry  own  plan/'  he  returned. 

"  Call  it  a  leading,  Martin/'  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  guidance,  dear  one,  but  not  towards  earthly 
gain,"  he  said. 

"We  are  not  seeking  riches  here,"  she  answered. 

And  Martin  Brook,  evangelist,  touched  the  souls  of 
men;  preaching  the  doctrines  of  Wesley,  and  winning 
the  love,  the  admiration,  and  the  respect  of  all.  It  was 
a  consolation  to  him  to  feel  that  he  had  never  differed  in 
creed  with  the  fathers  of  the  Church  of  his  first  choice. 
His  only  contention  was  in  the  policy  of  the  Church 
regarding  American  slavery.  That  body,  confirmed 
in  its  pro-slavery  attitude,  seemed  remote  and  impossi- 
ble to  him;  but  he  held  to  the  spiritual  doctrines  of 
the  Church  with  unswerving  fidelity. 

Seven  years  of  evangelistic  work  went  on.  His  home 
was  still  in  Troy ;  his  wife  and  child  were  with  the  faith- 
ful Larrabees,  and  he  was  winning,  from  the  midst  of 
the  general  strife,  the  designation  of  "the  Conscien- 
tious." 

There  was,  however,  always  the  undertone  of  sadness 

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Martin    Brook 

—the  minor  chord  of  loneliness— in  the  life  he  led. 
He  missed  the  privilege  of  being  called  a  Methodist. 

And  so,  when,  after  a  great  revival  under  his  minis- 
trations at  Bennington,  the  people  asked  him  to  return 
to  the  charge  of  their  church,  he  hurried  back  to  Mary 
with  the  welcome  news. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "they  want  me  to  go  back  into  the 
dear  old  Church.  I  haven't  sought  this.  They  know 
that  I  haven't  given  up  my  anti-slavery  principles, 
and  yet  they  ask  me  to  become  their  pastor." 

"Go  wherever  the  people  call  you,  Martin,"  she  said. 
"Return  to  the  regular  ministry  and  our  old  Church." 
Once  more  his  name  was  entered  on  the  lists;  once 
more  he  felt  the  cordial  hands  of  friends  and  brothers. 

"  Now  I  am  at  home,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  be  prudent. 
The  Lord  has  guided  me  into  pleasant  ways.  I  will 
keep  the  bishop's  advice  in  mind— grand  man  that  he 
was!" 

But  as  he  settled  calmly,  and  with  a  patient  heart, 
into  the  placid  life  of  his  new  pastoral  charge,  thankful 
for  a  moment's  respite  from  the  fight,  he  was  startled 
into  action  by  a  cry  of  alarm. 

President  Fillmore  had  signed  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Bill! 


Chapter  XIII 

IN  the  presence  of  this  new  summons,  the  preparations 
for  debate  which  Martin  had  made  at  the  outset  of  his 
career  stood  him  in  good  stead  as  the  ensuing  \Tears 
of  agitation  passed  fiercely  on.  Taking  the  Bible  as  the 
text-book  for  nations,  and  the  ballot  as  the  instrument 
of  progress,  he  declined  to  be  led  by  those  political  re- 
formers who  declared  the  compact  of  the  Union  to  be 
''an  agreement  with  hell  and  a  covenant  with  death/' 
but  reaffirmed  his  advocacy  of  an  enduring  national 
union  through  an  intellectual  crusade.  In  reply  to 
his  critics  —  there  were  many  of  these  in  the  several 
charges  to  which  he  was  successively  appointed  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  "two-year"  plan  of  his  Church — 
Martin  said  : 

"I  am  not  taking  partisan  politics  into  the  pulpit. 
The  anti-slavery  cause  is  a  religion.  My  vote  is  my 
sword.  We  owe  as  much  to  the  nation  as  to  the  Church. 
The  Scriptures  are  our  guide  to  right  conduct  as  a 
people— they  teach  us  national  morality.  We  are  a 
growing,  not  a  completed,  nation ;  and  our  future  great- 
ness turns  on  the  question  of  our  obedience  to  the  moral 
laws  in  our  relations  with  men,  no  less  than  on  our 
spiritual  enlightenment  in  our  relations  with  God. 
These  qualities  are  co-ordinate.  We  must  perform  the 
acts  of  righteousness  in  the  flesh  if  we  would  see  the 
rewards  of  righteousness  in  the  spirit.  We  are  made 
by  law  a  nation  of  slave-hunters,  and  the  sole  argument 
for  American  slavery  is  that  it  is  a  commercial  necessity. 

324 


Martin    Brook 

The  only  method  of  maintaining  slavery  is  by  injustice 
— the  assuming  that  one  race  of  men  should  be  treated 
as  Things.  Because  of  these  facts,  I  take  the  educa- 
tional work  of  reform  into  the  pulpit,  the  one  place  at 
my  command,  and  therein  advocate  a  better  compre- 
hension of  the  truth." 

Thus,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  his  official  boards, 
and  sustained  by  an  ever-increasing  popularity  as  a 
preacher,  Martin  persevered  in  his  course. 

Sometimes  his  zeal  carried  him  into  the  active  field 
of  politics — not  as  a  partisan,  but  as  an  advocate  of 
the  one  idea. 

He  had  preached  a  sermon  which  angered  the  pro- 
slavery  element,  and  one  of  his  hearers  demanded  the 
right  to  reply.  Martin  assented  to  this  proposition  of  a 
joint  debate.  It  was  at  the  time  of  a  fiercely  fought 
national  election,  and  the  church  board  refused  to  allow 
the  use  of  the  church  for  the  meeting.  A  scheme  was 
thereupon  concocted  to  get  Martin  into  a  position  where 
his  opponents  would  have  him  at  every  disadvantage. 
He  was  challenged  to  take  up  the  discussion  in  a  small 
settlement  not  far  from  the  spot  where  Jacobs  lived  in 
the  days  of  Martin's  bondage. 

This  suggestion  appealed  to  Martin's  imagination. 
The  thought  of  arguing  for  freedom  almost  on  the  site 
of  his  own  serfdom  fired  him  to  new  energy.  He  ac- 
cepted the  challenge,  but  he  did  not  know  that  plans 
had  been  laid  to  break  up  the  meeting  and  treat  him  to 
the  personal  indignity  of  a  coat  of  tar  and  feathers. 

In  order  to  reach  the  school-house  near  Lake  George, 
where  the  outrage  was  to  be  perpetrated,  a  ride  by  stage- 
coach was  necessary. 

Martin  secured  a  place  on  the  coach,  on  the  appointed 
day.  He  was  accompanied  by  only  one  friend.  He 
chose  the  top  seat — a  wide  one  at  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
large  enough  for  three  persons.     His  own  place  was  at 

325 


Martin    Brook 

the  left;  his  friend  was  to  sit  next  him;  and  the  third 
space  was  assigned  to  a  man  whom  Martin  knew  as 
one  of  the  leading  pro-slavery  politicians  of  the  town. 

On  the  seat  back  of  them  were  places  for  a  young 
woman — evidently  a  nurse-maid — and  a  child,  a  bright, 
attractive  little  girl  of  eight  or  nine. 

As  they  were  taking  their  places,  Martin  lifted  the 
child  and  was  in  the  act  of  handing  her  to  the  maid, 
when  the  little  one,  in  the  tone  of  a  petted  favorite, 
declared : 

"I'm  going  to  sit  by  this  gentleman/' 

"That  seat  is  taken,  Helen/'  the  nurse  explained. 

"Oh/'  said  Martin's  friend,  "if  she  wants  it,  I'll  sit 
back  here,  Mr.  Brook.  Let  the  little  girl  stay  where 
she  is." 

"I  will  take  care  of  her,"  Martin  remarked  to  the 
nurse,  as  they  settled  down  for  the  ten-mile  ride.  "I 
am  very  fond  of  little  girls.  And  so  your  name  is 
Helen?" 

"Yes,  sir;  Helen  Stafford  Graham.  I'm  going  to 
the  big  hotel.  My  mamma  is  there.  Are  you  going  to 
the  hotel,  too?"  But  Martin  did  not  answer.  "What 
makes  you  so  still?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing  that  you  would  understand,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing gravely.     "  No,  I  am  not  going  to  the  hotel. " 

He  took  one  of  the  black  curls  and  drew  it  gently 
through  his  fingers. 

"Helen  Stafford's  child!"  he  mused;  "and,  by  a 
strange  ordering,  I  am  her  guardian  for  an  hour!" 

As  they  rushed  along,  the  stage  jolting  and  sway- 
ing, he  saw  that  little  Helen  was  growing  restless. 
He  tried  to  interest  her  in  the  objects  about  them;  but 
after  a  time  she  slipped  down  from  the  hard  seat  and 
stood  on  the  roof  of  the  stage,  leaning  against  Martin's 
knee.  He  put  his  arm  about  her,  while  she  chattered 
to  him  and  sang  bits  of  song. 

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Martin    Brook 

In  her  features — the  dark  eyes  and  black  hair,  the 
rosy  cheeks — and  in  her  self-assertiveness,  he  saw  her 
mother  reproduced. 

"I  like  you/'  the  child  said,  looking  frankly  into  his 
face.  "Will  you  come  and  see  me?"  but  before  he 
could  reply,  her  sharp  eye  had  discovered  a  small  orna- 
ment attached  to  the  plain  black  silk  watch-cord  that 
encircled  his  neck.  "What  is  that?"  she  asked.  "Is 
it  gold?" 

She  took  Enoch's  Underground  Railroad  token  in 
her  hand. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  is  brass — a  token,  we  call  it.  I 
don't  think  I  can  explain  its  meaning  to  you.  I  wear 
it  because  of  the,  idea  it  represents,  not  its  intrinsic 
value." 

"  I  wouldn't  wear  a  brass  charm,"  she  declared. 

Martin  smiled.  He  looked  at  the  stranger  next  him, 
expecting  a  responsive  smile,  but  the  man  was  frowning. 

"I  don't  think  any  man  should  wear  that  thing," 
the  man  said.  "I  know  what  it  is:  your  abolitionist 
badge  of  defiance  of  the  law." 

"Pardon  me  for  differing  with  you,"  Martin  replied. 
"  It  was  given  me  by  a  friend ;  one  who  did  me  a  great 
service,  although  his  skin  is  black." 

"We  do  differ,  sir,  on  many  points,"  the  man  con- 
tinued. "I  heard  your  sermon  Sunday,  and  I  must 
say  I  disagree  with  you.  My  business  takes  me  about 
the  country  a  good  deal,  South  and  North.  Your  at- 
titude on  slavery  is  wrong — pernicious.  You  are  harm- 
ing business,  sir,  and  I  must  beg  permission  to  say  so. 
I'm  going  out  to  hear  your  talk  to-night." 

"  That  is  your  privilege,"  Martin  said. 

"  I  think  it  a  mistake,  more  than  that,  an  abuse  of 
the  pulpit,  to  carry  politics  into  the  sacred  desk.  You 
may  find  out  *ome  day  that  people  don't  want  that  sort 
of  thing." 

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Martin    Brook 

"Again  we  differ,  sir." 

"You  abolitionists  are  ruining  the  country/'  the 
man  went  on,  hotly,  evidently  trying  to  make  Martin 
angry. 

"  How  can  that  be  when  we  are  only  pointing  out  the 
evils  that  exist?  It  is  my  duty  to  preach  against  sin. 
If  you  listen  to  me  to-night,  perhaps  I  shall  convince 
you  of  this  fact." 

"Yes,"  his  opponent  replied,  "I  expect  to  hear  some 
rather  loud  talk.  You  may  hear  it,  too. "  He  smiled. 
"You'll  find  out  that  these  'evils/  as  you  call  them, 
exist  by  law — constitutional  statutes  and  divine  law," 
the  man  asserted. 

"I  grant  the  first  clause,  but  not  the  last,"  Martin 
answered.  "Divine  sanction  of  slavery  is  not  to  be 
found." 

"You  abolitionists  are  a  pack  of  fanatics,"  the  man 
cried,  in  passion.  "  You  are  nigger  -  stealers,  law- 
breakers, cowards,  everyone  of  you." 

Helen  nestled  closer  to  Martin,  trembling  with  fear. 

Martin's  face  had  grown  pale.  He  opened  his  lips 
to  reply,  but  at  that  instant,  as  the  coach  was  rounding 
a  high  ledge  of  rock  about  which  the  narrow,  sideling, 
stony  road  ran  abruptly,  with  a  deep  ravine  on  the 
right-hand  side  masked  by  a  growth  of  evergreens, 
a  stray  dog  jumped  from  the  thicket  and  frightened  the 
nigh  leader,  causing  him  to  spring,  slip  and  fall,  drag- 
ging his  mate  down.  The  heavy  wheelers  were  instantly 
upon  them,  plunging  furiously.  The  coach  lurched 
into  the  ledge  and  the  near  wheels  bounded  on  a  shelf, 
careening  to  the  right.  The  lines  slipped  through 
the  driver's  hands.  He  threw  his  legs  over  the  side 
of  the  box,  shouting,  "Hold  fast!"  and  leaped  down, 
as  the  ponderous  coach  poised  a  second  or  two  on  its 
right  wheels  and  then  toppled  towards  the  ravine. 

There  was  barely  space  between  the  track  and  the 

328 


Martin    Brook 

ravine  to  contain  the  coach.  The  maddened  horses, 
breaking  from  their  harness,  were  dashing  on  each 
other,  but  had  not  time  to  turn  before  the  driver  was 
at  their  heads. 

As  the  coach  settled,  Martin  grasped  the  rail  with 
his  left  hand  and  tried  to  catch  little  Helen  in  his  right, 
when,  with  a  cry  of  terror,  she  leaped  into  the  air,  out  over 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  among  the  trees. 

Martin  landed  on  his  feet,  unharmed,  at  the  very 
edge  of  the  precipice.  He  looked  about  him  quickly, 
saw  that  the  nurse-maid  was  lying  in  a  faint  beside 
him,  and  that  none  of  the  passengers  was  seriously 
injured. 

But  the  child  was  beyond  his  reach,  upheld  by  the 
vibrating  branches  of  a  cedar  that  projected  straight 
from  the  rock,  and  hung  suspended  over  an  abyss. 
He  discovered  that  he  could  not  rescue  her  by  going 
out  along  that  tree — it  would  not  hold  them  both — 
and  at  the  same  glance  he  perceived  another  tree, 
that  shot  its  gnarled  trunk  parallel  to  the  one  she 
was  in. 

He  got  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  moved 
slowly  over  the  cliff,  calling :  "  Don't  be  afraid,  Helen. 
Hold  on  with  both  hands.     I'll  help  you/' 

He  felt  the  tree  bend  beneath  his  weight,  and  heard 
a  snapping  of  its  roots.  He  saw  that  he  could  not  reach 
her,  but  that  her  dress  was  caught  in  the  ragged  twigs 
of  the  tree.  He  discerned  that  she  was  not  in  im- 
mediate peril  if  she  remained  quiet;  he  knew  that  he 
had  a  moment's  respite  for  thought  of  how  to  save 
her. 

Meanwhile  the  passengers,  escaped  from  the  wreck, 
were  standing  breathlessly  on  the  bank.  Below,  at 
a  depth  of  sixty  feet  or  more,  they  saw,  as  Martin  did, 
the  bed  of  a  stream,  now  dry  and  filled  with  jagged 
rocks.     A  fall  into  that  chasm  meant  death. 

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Martin  Brook 

Martin  laid  his  length  along  the  tree,  distributing 
the  strain  over  the  several  crooked  branches.  He 
realized  that,  if  the  roots  held  firml}7,  he  could  rescue 
the  child. 

Without  turning  his  face,  he  called  to  the  men  on 
the  bank: 

"Get  the  lines  from  the  harness.  Make  a  running 
noose.  Find  a  long  pole  and  shove  that  noose  out  to 
me." 

An  awful  period  of  silence  ensued.  At  last  he  heard 
his  friend's  voice :  "  Here's  the  line/'  and  the  snapping 
of  the  twigs  as  the  pole  was  slowty  pushed  through 
the  tangle  of  branches.  He  grasped  the  end  of  the 
pole  and  shoved  it  ahead  until  it  reached  the  child. 
Calmly,  with  a  smile,  he  said  to  her : 

"Now,  dear,  put  that  noose  over  your  head,  down 
under  your  arms — one  arm  at  a  time — carefully.  Don't 
hurry.  Hold  on  to  the  tree  with  one  hand.  That's 
right."  Then,  calling  to  the  men,  he  ordered:  "Pull 
steadily." 

They  drew  her  towards  them;  but  her  clothing 
clung  to  the  boughs.  The}7  lifted  both  child  and  tree, 
until,  with  one  sudden  wrench,  the3T  brought  her  safely 
to  them. 

But,  at  the  moment  of  her  release,  the  tree,  like  a 
bent  bow,  sprang  back,  swishing  through  the  air, 
striking  with  terrific  force  against  the  tree  on  which 
Martin  laj7. 

There  was  an  ominous  crackling  of  the  roots.  Up 
and  down  he  swayed.  A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  those 
who  watched  him  as  the  tree  settled  sharph7,  but  still 
remained  embedded  in  the  rocl^y  soil.  He  hung,  head 
downward,  over  the  cliff.  Fragments  of  earth  and  stone 
went  bounding  through  the  trees  to  the  bottom  of  the 
ravine.  Martin  closed  his  eyes  and  uttered  a  word  of 
prayer  for  strength  and  courage. 

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Martin    Brook 

The  lessons  he  had  learned  as  a  boyish  athlete  came 
to  mind,  but  his  unpractised  muscles  seemed  unable 
to  respond  to  his  will.  Cautiously  he  raised  his  body, 
inch  by  inch,  guiding  his  feet  by  the  sense  of  touch, 
along  that  tree,  breaking  the  entangling  twigs.  Calmly 
he  spoke  once  more :  "  Don't  touch  me  till  I  get  my  feet 
above  the  edge/'  He  felt  his  strength  failing  him — 
he  made  one  final  effort.  His  foot  touched  the  pro- 
jecting rock. 

"Now!"  he  cried. 

They  grabbed  him  and  drew  him  upward. 

He  lay  exhausted  on  the  ground  beside  them. 

The  stranger,  who  had  denounced  him  but  a  mo- 
ment since,  stood  by  him,  with  hands  clasped  in  an 
agony  of  relief. 

"  My  God ! "  he  cried.  "  I  called  that  man  a  coward ! ' ' 
He  leaned  over  Martin.  "Mr.  Brook,  I  was  planning 
a  most  despicable  outrage.  I  believed  you  deserved 
it.  We  were  going  to  break  up  your  meeting.  Can 
you  forgive  me?"  He  took  Martin's  hand  as  he  knelt 
beside  him. 

"You  see,  God  rules,"  said  Martin.  "Yes,  I  forgive 
you,  but  you  must  ask  God  to  forgive  your  injustice 
to  humanity." 

"You  have  convinced  me,"  the  man  said,  bowing 
his  head. 


Chapter  XIV 

THERE  was  movement  in  the  surcharged  air. 

Men  held  their  breath,  not  at  the  rescue  of  a  single 
man  from  the  peril  of  a  midnight  mob,  but  at  the  peril 
of  a  nation  from  the  conduct  of  its  chosen  leaders,  while 
the  months  went  by,  bringing  their  changes  to  great 
and  small.  In  the  events  closest  to  Martin's  life  there 
were  some  that  caused  a  pang  to  Mary's  gentle  heart. 
She  had  seen  her  boy  go  out  into  the  world;  she  had 
given  him  up,  for  his  own  good,  and  had  said  good- 
bye as  he  started  for  a  new  home  with  Chichester,  in  that 
enigmatical  West.  This  friend  of  earlier  days  had  of- 
fered the  boy  a  place  in  the  business  that  was  growing 
into  large  proportions  among  the  forests  of  Michigan, 
and  Mary  had  yielded  to  the  inevitable. 

The  years  had  brought  a  change  also  to  Martin 
himself.     He  was  now  in  charge  of  a  church  in  Albany. 

In  the  din  of  coming  strife  he  felt  the  fighting-blood 
of  his  ancestry  urging  him  on  to  a  post  nearer  the 
danger-line.  The  crash  of  John  Brown's  death-trap 
had  echoed  through  the  world.  Lincoln  had  moved 
across  the  cloudy  plane  of  vision;  war  had  been  de- 
clared. 

The  city  was  astir  with  sounds  of  preparation  for  a 
conflict  whose  outcome  no  man  could  positively  fore- 
cast. There  were  encampments  of  troops  almost  with- 
in hearing  from  Martin's  windows.  Regiments  were 
marching  to  the  front. 

Martin's  larger  field,  that  he  had  prayed  for  in  the 

332 


Martin    Brook 

day  of  his  vague  unrest  at  Shelburne,  was  now  before 
him,  and  yet  he  felt  dissatisfaction  with  his  work.  His 
point  of  view  was  shifted. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  with  peculiar  earnestness,  one  day, 
when  he  had  just  returned  from  a  religious  meeting 
in  the  camp,  "  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  go  into  the  army 
and  help  the  Cause  as  far  as  I  am  able." 

"I  think  you  have  done  your  share  already,  Martin." 

"It  is  cowardly  to  foretell  a  war,  and  then  not  go 
to  the  front  when  the  war  actually  comes,"  he  said. 

"You  have  fought  the  early  battles  on  a  higher 
plane,"  she  said.  "You  have  faced  perils  that  others 
shrank  from,  and — and,  really,  Martin,  you  are  now 
beyond  the  military  age."  She  ran  her  fingers  through 
the  thin  gray  hair  and  softly  stroked  his  head. 

"We  never  get  beyond  the  age  of  duty,"  he  replied, 
with  a  gentle  smile.  "  Perhaps  I  feel  my  position  more 
keenly  now,  because  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from 
Chichester  that  almost  causes  me  to  regret  my  poverty. 
I  have  nothing  to  offer  my  country  but  myself,  while 
he  writes  me  that  he  is  equipping  a  company,  and  shall 
take  it  into  the  field.  They  ought  to  make  him  a  colonel, 
at  least,  and  I  believe  they  will.  He  writes  that  he  is 
a  personal  friend  of  Governor  Blair.  But  he  says  very 
positively  that  he  shall  refuse  to  let  Tom  join  the  com- 
pany, because  he  is  needed  in  the  store.     He  says — " 

"What's  that?  Tommy?"  Mary  cried.  "Why, 
Tommy  is  too  young  to  go  in  the  army!" 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  he  said,  holding  her  hand  in  his, 
"  that  mother-heart  of  yours !  But  you  say  I'm  too  old. 
That's  a  harder  accusation  to  bear — too  old!" 

She  took  the  letter  from  the  table  and  read  it  through. 
Then,  looking  up,  she  said : 

"Dear  husband,  I  have  never  stood  in  your  path  of 
duty.  We  are  growing  old  together — that  we  cannot 
help — but  I  shall  not  say  anj^thing  more." 

333 


Martin  Brook 

"  I  am  not  qualified  to  lead  a  company,  and  I  am  too 
old  to  be  accepted  in  the  ranks,  but  I  am  capable  of  going 
in  the  capacity  of  chaplain.     Our  men  need  help." 

"Yes/'  she  whispered. 

"  The  regiment  is  about  ready  to  move/'  he  remarked. 
"  I  believe  the  men  would  be  glad  to  have  me  go  with 
them." 

"I  shall  not  oppose  you/'  Mary  replied. 

He  went  out,  confirmed  in  his  sense  of  duty,  and  on 
his  way  to  the  Governor's  mansion  he  encountered  Dr. 
Foster,  his  family  physician. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Brook/ '  the  doctor  said,  drawing  his 
carriage  up  at  the  walk.  "I'm  going  into  the  service 
at  last." 

"Are  you?    I  have  decided  to  do  the  same  thing." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  a  moment.  His  face  as- 
sumed a  professional  aspect.  "  Are  you  strong  enough 
to  endure  army  life?" 

"Yes." 

"Drive  back  with  me  to  my  office,"  the  doctor  sug- 
gested.    "  Let's  talk  it  over. ' ' 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  the  privacy  of  his  office,  the 
doctor  said : 

"You  know  we  can't  let  all  our  good  men  go  to  the 
front,  Mr.  Brook.  I  think  you  can  do  more  and  better 
work  right  here.  There  is  no  immediate  cause  for  alarm 
in  your  case,  but  I  find  there  is  a  slight — a  very  slight — 
affection  of  the  heart.  You  should  avoid  excitement. 
Your  sympathetic  nervous  system  seems  functionally 
disordered.  Stay  right  here — you  are  needed  in  your 
present  place  most  of  all." 

Martin  returned  home,  disappointed,  but  he  did  not 
tell  her  of  the  interview  with  Dr.  Foster.  He  reasoned 
that  there  was  no  occasion  for  alarming  her.  But  she 
perceived  this  reticence  and  observed  him  closely ;  for, 
ever  since  that  stress  upon  his  vital  energies  when  he 

334 


Martin    Brook 

rescued  little  Helen,  she    had    felt,  at  times,  serious 
alarm  concerning  his  health. 

Now  she  noticed  that  he  said  no  more  about  going  to 
the  front,  but  renewed  his  work  in  the  pulpit  and  the 
camp. 

"I've  found  my  place  at  last/'  he  said,  shortly  after 
his  talk  with  the  doctor.  "We  are  going  to  organize 
a  relief  corps.  The  society  people  have  taken  the  matter 
up,  Mary,  and  they  want  you  to  join  them.  Isn't  it 
strange  how  God  orders  our  affairs?  Here  are  persons 
who  have  never  recognized  us  socially  coming  and 
asking  our  assistance.     You'll  go,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  can  be  of  service — certainly."  And,  side  by 
side  with  the  Schuylers,  the  Van  Rensselaers,  and  the 
leaders  of  fashion,  Mary  walked  calmly  on,  forgetful 
of  self  and  social  estate,  in  the  establishment  of  sanitary 
reforms. 

By  the  merest  accident,  while  engaged  in  some  special 
duty,  Mary  learned  that  one  of  the  society  women  was 
about  to  join  them.  "Mrs.  Sidney  Graham,"  Mrs. 
Schuyler  said,  "  has  been  away,  but  is  expected  home 
this  week.  I  am  very  confident  that  Mrs.  Graham 
on  her  return  will  become  a  decided  acquisition  to  our 
executive  committee." 

"Is  Mrs.  Graham  noted  for  her  charities?"  Mary 
asked. 

"Quite  so,"  Mrs.  Schuyler  declared.  "I  shall  see 
that  you  meet  her  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Brook.  I  hope  you  will  see  her  at  the  re- 
ception I  shall  give  next  month  to  the  New  York  workers 
in  our  cause." 

"  I  have  already  met  her,"  Mary  said,  quietly. 

"Indeed?"  the  lady's  surprise  was  slowly  filtered 
through  a  gold  pince-nez.  "I  had  not  heard  you 
mention  the  fact  before." 

"  They  are  not  members  of  our  Church,"  Mary  said. 

335 


Martin    Brook 

For  several  days  she  did  not  speak  to  Martin  of  Helen 
Graham's  return.  The  half-fear  of  reviving  painful 
memories  kept  her  silent.  But  when  Mrs.  Schuyler's 
invitation  reached  her,  she  was  obliged  to  speak. 

"Have  you  met  Sidney  Graham  since  coming  here?" 
she  asked. 

"Graham?  No/'  he  said,  with  a  slight  frown.  "He 
is  in  business  here,  with  Jabez  Ketchum,  the  man  who 
treated  you  so  outrageously,  but  I  haven't  seen  either." 

" I  am  glad  they  don't  annoy  you." 

"I  have  weightier  matters  to  occupy  my  mind.  I 
heard  casually  that  the  house  of  Graham  &  Ketchum 
is  heavily  involved  on  account  of  the  breaking  up  of 
their  Southern  trade.  There  are  a  great  many  failures 
occurring  in  the  commercial  world  because  of  this  re- 
pudiation of  debts." 

Mary  hesitated  a  moment.  Ought  she  to  mention 
Helen's  name  and  so  bring  up  a  subject  never  spoken 
of  by  Martin  since  that  night  when  he  had  told  her  of 
the  letter  Helen  had  written  thanking  him  for  saving 
little  Helen's  life?  There  was  no  thought  in  her  heart 
except  to  protect  him  from  a  possible  pang.  She  handed 
him  the  invitation.     Perhaps  Helen  would  not  be  there. 

"That's  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Schuyler,  I  am  sure," 
Martin  said,  reading  the  invitation.  "  I  shall  be  glad 
to  meet  these  people  from  New  York." 

"Yes,  I  want  you  to  meet  them,"  Mary  replied,  "but 
of  course  I  shall  not  go." 

"Not  go?    Why,  you're  invited!" 

She  smiled.  "I  haven't  anything  to  wear  but  my 
old  black  silk." 

"  Black  silk  ?    You  alwa}7s  look  best  in  that. " 

"That's  because  it  is  my  best,  I  suppose.  I  have 
worn  it  to  every  meeting  of  the  committee." 

"Certainly.  It  was  bought  for  that  purpose.  Wear 
it  whenever  you  wish." 

336 


Martin    Brook 

"You  dear  old  stupid!"  she  said,  laughing,  though 
the  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "  We  are  not  society  people. 
Those  ladies  have  more  than  one  dress." 

"It  is  you,  my  dear,  not  your  clothes,  who  are  in- 
vited. We  have  never  given  much  thought  to  the 
follies  of  dress." 

"I  know  that,  Martin.  I  am  not  complaining.  Our 
Church  is  made  up  of  plain  people ;  but  society  ladies 
think  very  differently." 

"I  always  wear  the  same  suit  —  sometimes  rather 
too  long  to  please  you,"  he  said. 

"There!"  she  cried,  amused.  "You  have  trapped 
yourself."  Then,  more  seriously:  " It's  different  with 
you,  dear.     A  clergyman  is  limited  in  his  dress." 

"  Yes,  and  in  some  other  ways,  too,"  he  said. 

"Now,"  she  said,  rising  and  putting  an  arm  about 
him,  "stop  right  where  you  are.  You  must  go, 
whether  I  do  or  not." 

"Dress  is  always  a  disturber.  Our  Church  is  right 
in  opposing  vanities." 

Martin  could  not  get  the  thought  of  Mary's  one  dress 
out  of  his  mind,  when  she  had  left  him.  "I  really 
haven't  the  money  to  buy  her  a  new  one,"  he  mused. 
But,  impressed  by  a  new  idea,  he  at  last  took  his  hat 
and  went  down-town.  When  he  came  back  he  carried 
a  little  parcel  in  his  hand,  and  went  to  Mary's  sitting- 
room.  There,  with  a  show  of  pride  he  might  have 
censured  in  another,  he  unwrapped  the  package  and 
laid  before  h^r  a  handsome  lace  collar  and  pair  of  un- 
dersleeves. 

"Why,  Martin  Brook!"  she  exclaimed.  "Where  did 
these  come  from?" 

"Brother  Schemmerhorn's  store,"  he  said,  proudly. 

"I  got  to  thinking  the  matter  over,  dear,  and  I  knew 

that  you  wouldn't  assent  to  such  a  proposition.     So, 

I  went  down  alone,  and  told  him  that  I  couldn't  quite 

Y  337 


Martin    Brook 

afford  a  dress,  but  that  I  wanted  something  nice  for 
you  to  wear  with  a  black  silk,  to  a  reception,  and — " 

"I  cannot  consent  to  wear  borrowed  things,  Martin!" 
she  said. 

"Borrowed?"  he  repeated.     "Why,  I  bought  them!" 

"Bought  them?"  she  cried,  starting  up.  "Oh, 
Martin!  How  could  you  do  it!  We  can't  afford  it! 
We  need — " 

"There,  there,  dear,"  he  pleaded.  "Please  don't 
spoil  my  happiness." 

"  But,  Martin,  think  of  the  money !" 

"Don't  you  think  them  worth —    Aren't  the}^  nice?" 

"Nice?  They  are  beautiful  —  beautiful!"  she  ex- 
claimed, as  she  put  the  collar  on  over  her  dark  print, 
and  turned  about  to  get  the  effect  of  it  in  the  looking- 
glass.  "Of  course,  this  will  look  very  different  over 
black  silk,  you  know.  Why,  dear,  they  will  make 
my  gown  really  —  handsome!"  she  said,  laughing 
and  crying  in  the  same  breath.  Then  she  put  both 
hands  on  his  shoulders  and  reached  up  and  kissed 
him.     "You  are  so  good — so  thoughtful !" 

He  sighed.     "  I  wish  I  were. " 

A  formal  reception  in  fashionable  life  was  an  un- 
usual event  in  the  experience  of  the  Brooks.  Martin 
had  seen  something  of  this  side  of  life.  He  had  oc- 
casionally been  asked  to  perform  the  marriage  cere- 
mony at  the  homes  of  the  rich,  in  the  unexpected  absence 
of  their  own  pastor,  but  such  incidents  were  so  rare 
as  to  justify  mention  of  them  in  his  dianT,  with  a  modest 
statement  of  the  fee  received.  In  one  case,  he  had  been 
given  the  unprecedented  sum  of  ten  dollars  in  gold. 
But  the  rules  of  the  Church,  and  Martin's  conception 
of  the  holy  rite,  made  his  ceremony  too  brief  and  simple 
to  satisfy  the  requirements  of  those  who  desired  the  use 
of  the  ring  or  the  observance  of  ritualistic  forms. 

338 


Martin    Brook 

He  had  also  been  appealed  to,  under  similar  con- 
ditions, to  pronounce  the  funeral  rites  over  the  remains 
of  strangers ;  but  he  shrank  from  this,  more  than  from 
the  solemn  marriage  service,  with  those  who  were  un- 
known to  him.  He  was  too  genuine  of  heart  to  speak 
words  of  idle  purport  above  the  dead ;  too  contemptuous 
of  wealth  to  lose  sight  of  the  peril  to  man's  soul  through 
the  possession  of  money  —  a  possession  which  often- 
times it  seemed  to  him  made  entrance  to  heaven  an 
impossibility.  Above  all,  he  was  much  too  sensitive 
to  the  sufferings  of  the  mourners  to  speak  candidly  of 
the  danger  of  postponing  peace  in  Christ.  He  could 
never  forget  the  day  when  he  was  asked  to  speak  across 
the  body  of  a  rich  man — an  infidel;  a  coarse,  brutal, 
perverted  nature — who  had  ended  a  profligate  career 
by  taking  his  own  life.  It  would  be  impossible  to  con- 
ceive of  a  life  more  completely  at  variance  with  Martin's 
idea  of  right  living.  He  was  told  that  several  ministers 
had  refused  to  hold  these  services ;  and  at  the  same  time 
he  learned  that  the  wife  of  this  wretched  victim  of  de- 
stroying passions  was  a  truly  noble  woman,  who  had 
borne  her  domestic  afflictions  without  a  murmur,  be- 
cause, in  the  inexplicable  mystery  of  the  affections, 
she  loved  the  man  who  had  wrecked  her  happiness. 
Martin  had  consented,  but  that  experience  had  made 
him  ill  for  days. 

These  rare  occasions  of  Martin's  professional  duty 
did  not,  of  course,  bring  Mary  into  touch  with  the 
social  side  of  fashionable  life.  In  her  mind,  as  in 
Martin's,  there  lingered  memories  of  Elmhurst;  but  so 
many  years  of  privation  had  intervened  that  the  only 
sense  of  domestic  customs  now  remaining  came  from 
their  Methodist  habit  of  self -chosen  simplicity. 

For  these  reasons,  the  invitation  to  attend  a  function 
at  the  mansion  of  the  Schuylers  held  all  the  elements 
of  disturbance  for  her  gentle  soul.     She  felt  instinctively 

339 


Martin    Brook 

the  incongruity  of  the  situation.  She  knew  that  this 
could  be  only  a  momentary  stepping  out  of  her  ac- 
customed path,  to  go  back  to  the  usual  and  the  plain 
the  moment  it  was  done.  It  was  not  an  invitation 
to  tea  at  the  house  of  a  Methodist,  where  she  could 
wear  her  broche  shawl  and  untrimmed  bonnet,  and  talk 
of  those  small  economies  they  both  were  obliged  to 
practice  —  where  the  sewing-circle  and  the  Children's 
Aid  Societ}7  could  be  discussed.  No;  it  was  a  grave, 
serious,  revival  of  those  almost  forgotten  days  with  Mrs. 
Wright  and  Mrs.  Coulter. 

But  when  she  saw  how  happy  Martin  was  at  the 
thought  of  her  being  "in  her  proper  place  "  at  last; 
when  she  realized  his  lack  of  appreciation  of  society 
barriers,  she  bravely  waived  her  own  judgment  and 
accepted  the  invitation. 

Dear  woman!  Because  of  the  modesty  of  her  sweet 
nature,  she  did  not  for  an  instant  comprehend  that 
behind  the  mask  of  stateliness  there  might  lurk  a  pang 
of  envy  of  her  innate  unselfishness. 

When  she  came  down  from  her  room  the  night  of 
the  reception,  and  met  Martin  in  their  little  parlor 
with  a  quiet  "I'm  read}7/'  he  looked  at  her  in  admira- 
tion. He  felt,  too,  a  personal  sense  of  pride  in  those 
bits  of  lace  that  he  had  bought  for  her. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  the  most  distinguished- 
looking  woman  in  the  company." 

"I  hope  I  do  appear  well,  for  your  sake,  Martin," 
she  said,  as  they  walked  along.  Neither  of  them  had 
thought  of  taking  a  carriage;  that  would  have  been 
an  undreamed-of  extravagance.  The  idea  of  such  a 
luxury  was  not  suggested  to  their  minds  until  they 
reached  the  mansion  and  saw  the  crowd  before  the 
door,  though  she  did  not  speak  of  it  even  then. 

But  she  did  feel  a  fluttering  of  the  heart  as  they  were 
ushered  in  by  the  colored  servant,  through  the  crush 

340 


Martin    Brook 

of  arriving  guests.  The  rumble  of  carriages,  the  slam- 
ming of  carriage  doors,  the  glare  of  lights  within  the 
mansion,  the  murmur  of  voices  made  her  tremble. 

She  went  impassively  with  the  throng,  up  to  the 
dressing-room,  losing  sight  of  Martin.  She  felt  alone, 
deserted,  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  self-con- 
fident, beautifully  gowned  women,  while  a  maid  re- 
moved her  shawl  and  bonnet — it  seemed  so  odd  to  her 
to  be  waited  upon  in  this  manner. 

All  of  the  women  about  her,  crowding  before  the 
mirror,  in  their  expansive  skirts,  with  bare  arms  and 
scarcely  concealed  necks,  were  talking  at  once;  no- 
body was  listening.  The  seeming  lack  of  courtesy 
shocked  her.  There  was  a  rustle  of  silks,  a  waving  of 
fans — Mary  had  not  thought  of  a  fan— an  adjusting 
of  laces,  plumes,  and  bracelets;  a  dazzling  glitter  of 
jewels,  and  an  ever-shifting  picture  of  bright  colors 
in  an  atmosphere  of  delicate,  mingled  perfumes. 

Mary,  in  her  black  silk,  with  high  neck  and  long, 
flowing  sleeves,  adorned  only  by  the  wide  lace  collar  and 
sleeves  of  a  preceding  fashion,  and  in  the  very  smallest 
of  crinoline,  became  conscious  that  she  was  not  dressed 
as  the  other  women  were — that  her  finery  was  out  of  date ! 
A  vague  mortification  seized  her — an  unchristian  wish 
for  finer  dress  caused  her  to  shrink  back  timidly. 

She  did  not  know  any  of  the  women  in  the  room. 
Some  of  them  glanced  at  her,  but  not  one  of  them  spoke 
to  her,  except  a  ponderous  near-sighted  dowager,  who 
mistook  her  for  a  maid,  and  increased  her  embarrass- 
ment by  saying,  loudly :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure." 

Mary  drew  a  long  breath  when  at  last  she  escaped 
from  the  tilting  mass  of  behooped  women  into  the 
hall,  where  Martin  stood  smilingly  holding  his  hand 
out  to  her.  She  clung  to  his  arm,  trembling  and  thank- 
ful for  his  protection.  Her  only  pride  now  was  for  him. 
She  looked  into  his  calm,  strong  face,  that  seemed  so 

341 


Martin    Brook 

stern  but  for  the  tender  light  in  his  eyes.  She  saw 
the  dignity  of  manner,  the  grace  of  movement,  the 
commanding  presence,  that  set  at  defiance  all  criticism 
of  his  plain  black  frock-coat  and  trousers — they  were 
somewhat  threadbare  at  the  knees — and  made  him  a 
leader  among  men.  Her  embarrassment  was  gone. 
She*could  hear  again  his  rebuke  to  a  thoughtless  man 
who  had  once  laughed  at  him  for  wearing  a  patched 
coat:  "My  honored  wife  repaired  that  garment,  sir;" 
and  now  she  whispered  to  herself:  "I  am  his  wife!" 

The}7  entered  the  drawing-room  at  a  moment  when 
there  was  a  break  in  the  procession  of  guests  and  stood 
alone  before  their  hostess,  who  greeted  them  cordialty. 

"We  owe  so  much  to  Mrs.  Brook,"  Mrs.  Schuyler 
said  to  Martin,  holding  Mary's  hand,  and  stepping 
from  the  line  to  say : 

"Mrs.  Graham,  here  is  Mrs.  Brook,  of  whom  I  spoke." 

The  woman  she  addressed  turned  slowly  from  before 
the  great  marble  mantel,  with  its  artistic  carvings  and 
huge  mirror,  which  was  a  part  of  the  scheme  of  the 
gorgeous  room,  and  faced  them. 

For  a  moment  she  neither  spoke  nor  stirred,  as  she 
studied  Martin  Brook's  wife.  Then  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  Mary. 

"Mrs.  Schuyler  is  right,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  even 
tone,  with  a  slightly  foreign  use  of  her  vowels.  "  There 
are  very  few  who  do  not  owe  you  their  love  for  some 
kindness,  I  fancy.  But,"  she  added,  withdrawing 
her  hand  and  offering  it  to  Martin,  "  my  personal  grati- 
tude is  due  to  you,  Mr.  Brook.  May  I  offer  you  my 
thanks  here,  in  this  public  place,  and  at  this  late  day?" 

"You  have  already  done  that,"  Martin  said. 

"No,"  said  Helen,  with  a  gleam  of  her  old-time  im- 
pulsiveness, "not  by  my  own  tongue.  You  saved  my 
child's  life.     I  merely  wrote  my  thanks." 

"There  has  been  no  opportunity,"  Martin  said. 
342 


Martin    Brook 

"  Whatever  thanks  are  due  have  already  been  rendered 
to  God." 

"Yes?"  she  questioned.  "I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
I  have  done  so,  although—"  She  stopped  speaking, 
but  took  Mary  by  the  hand.  "Come,"  she  said,  im- 
periously, stepping  back  into  a  corner  where  a  tete- 
a-tete  was  just  then  vacated.  Then,  in  a  milder,  more 
pleading  tone :  "  Sit  down.  You  won't  mind  if  I  hold 
your  hand  a  minute?"  She  gently  pushed  Mary  into 
the  seat  beside  her.  She  seemed  at  a  loss  for  words, 
and  said,  as  if  trying  to  force  herself  to  be  calm :  "  Do 
3'ou  like  this  sort  of  thing— this  crowd— this  superficial 
life?" 

"It  is  new  to  me,"  Mary  replied.  "I  never  attend- 
ed a  reception — " 

"May  I  come  to  see  you?"  Helen  asked  abruptly, 
still  looking  in  her  face  and  not  heeding  Mary's  words! 
"There  is  a  good  deal  I  want  to  say."     She  looked  up 
at  Martin.     She  plainly  showed  the  effect  of  his  gaze 
as  he  stood  gravely  watching  her— here  in  these  brill- 
iant surroundings;    the  swaying  mass  of  people;  the 
white  and  gold  panellings  of  the  room;  the  prismatic 
glint  of  the  chandeliers  and  candelabra ;  the  fashionable 
attire  of  light  silks  and  spreading  skirts ;  the  color  and 
movement,  and  the  incoherent  sound  of  voices.     In  all 
of  this  he  could  see  the  Helen  Stafford  of  the  long  ago, 
grown  older,  with  a  crown  of  white  hair,  beset  with 
diamonds  and  rubies,  a  great  brooch  with  a  blood-red 
gem  clasping  the   folds   of  soft   gauze  that  billowed 
across  her  shoulders  and  ended  in  a  wide  fall  of  rare 
old  lace  about  her  breast;  her  bare  arms  circled  with 
bracelets,  and  her  small  hands  in  kid  gloves  that  came 
up  just  over  the  wrist,  matching  the  fairness  of  her 
skin. 

And  yet  she  was  not  the  woman  he  had  loved.     There 
was  an  eager,  pathetic  look  in  her  dark  eyes— the  only 

343 


Martin    Brook 

feature  wholly  unchanged — that  revealed  a  spirit  of 
dissatisfaction — he  almost  thought  of  grief.  But  that 
could  scarcely  be  in  one  whose  life  had  known  the  ful- 
ness of  ambitions  gratified. 

In  the  glance  she  gave  him  he  saw  only  an  imper- 
sonal appeal,  without  a  stir  of  his  pulse,  as  if  he  were 
one  who,  standing  outside  her  world,  might  help  her; 
but  how,  he  could  not  comprehend. 

He  answered  that  look  as  he  would  have  spoken — 
as  he  had,  indeed,  spoken  a  thousand  times — to  a  soul 
searching  for  a  truth  to  cling  to  and  be  saved.  He 
was  Martin  Brook,  the  evangelist;  she  only  a  human 
soul. 

She  addressed  her  words  to  that  responsive  look. 

"  I  am  coming  to  see  you  both  I"  she  said. 

"And  you  will  bring  your  daughter ?"  Mary  asked. 
"  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  her.  I  know  of  Mr.  Brook's 
rescue  of  her/' 

"Yes,"  Helen  replied.  "I  want  her  to  meet  you." 
There  was  a  softening  of  her  manner ;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment Martin  saw  a  steely  glitter  come  into  her  eyes, 
as  she  rose  quickly,  said  "Good-night"  sharply,  as 
if  to  avert  some  annoyance.  Mary  saw  this,  too,  and 
at  the  same  time,  rising,  she  perceived  the  cause;  but 
Martin  did  not,  for  his  back  was  towards  the  room. 

But  before  Helen  could  move  away,  Sidney  Graham 
came  elbowing  rudely  up  to  them.  He  clapped  Martin 
on  the  shoulder.  Martin  looked  around  and  recognized 
him.  It  was  evident  to  all  that  he  had  been  drinking 
to  excess.  Martin  stepped  aside.  Graham  half  staggered 
up  to  Mary,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Brook,"  he  cried,  "this  is  a  pleasure!" 

Mary  shrank  from  him. 

"Mr.  Graham!"  Helen  said,  reprovingly,  taking 
him  by  the  arm. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  dear?" 

344 


Martin    Brook 

"Mr.  Graham  is  not  well/'  she  remarked.  "He was 
indisposed  all  day/' 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear — not  a  bit  of  it.  I'm  glad 
to  see  Mrs.  Brook,  but  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you,  Brook. 
I  fancied  you  were  hanged,  along  with  your  friend, 
John  Brown/'  He  laughed  foolishly,  and  turned 
unsteadily  to  a  man  near  by.  "Say,  you  Corson — 
don't  you  drink  all  o'  that  champagne !  I  got  my  eye 
on  you  !"     He  left  them  without  another  word. 

Martin  saw  the  color  fade  from  Helen's  face  as  she 
bowed  slightly,  spoke  to  the  hostess,  and  passed  up 
the  stairs. 


Chapter    XV 

AMID  the  alternating  current  of  hopes  and  fears, 
during  the  first  weeks  of  the  Civil  War,  the  individual 
was  lost  to  sight;  the  man  was  merged  in  the  idea. 
The  emotions  of  a  single  heart— the  grief  and  shame 
of  a  proud  woman,  the  resentment  of  an  insult,  the 
pity  of  a  strong  man  for  a  suffering  soul,  the  unspoken 
sympathy  of  a  hand-clasp— were  but  incidents  that 
made  no  ripple  on  the  surface  of  the  mighty  flood  that 
eqgulfed  the  nation. 

In  the  greater  thought  of  the  hour,  Martin  forgot 
the  minor  chord  of  Helen  Graham's  pleading  promise : 
"I  shall  come  to  see  you  both."  Mary  remembered  it, 
but  said  nothing.  She  saw  that  Martin  was  not  troubled 
by  their  meeting.  His  mind  was  dwelling  on  that 
larger  task  — the  task  of  allaying  doubt  of  the  Union 
cause. 

To  those  more  impulsive  men  who  had  not  learned 
the  lesson  of  patience  as  he  had  learned  it,  and  who 
feared  the  outcome  of  the  war,  his  invariable  reply 
was:  "Lincoln  is  God's  agent.  We  must  give  him 
our  support.  I  wish,  as  you  do,  that  he  was  less  free 
with  jests,  and  that  he  held  more  radical  opinions  re- 
garding slavery.  The  time  may  come  when  it  will  be 
necessary  to  free  and  arm  the  slaves.  I  pray  that  God 
will  avert  that  horror — the  vengeance  of  an  oppressed 
people.  But  for  the  present,  let  us  bear  this  in  mind : 
God  did  not  choose  3^ou  nor  me  to  the  office  of  leader/' 

Martin  tried  to  avoid  appeals  to  passion.     But  there 

346 


Martin    Brook 

were  moments  when  his  words  fired  the  public  heart — 
moments  like  those  that  followed  the  rioting  in  Baltimore. 

Standing  in  his  pulpit,  the  Sunday  evening  after 
the  shooting  of  the  Massachusetts  troops,  Martin  had 
then  said  : 

"If  one  more  drop  of  Northern  blood  is  shed  upon 
those  streets  in  such  a  cause,  the  North  will  rise  en 
masse  and  wipe  out  Baltimore  I" 

He  spoke  in  that  low,  penetrating  tone  which  Enoch 
had  taught  him  on  the  hill-side  at  Shelburne. 

An  instant  of  silence  ensued,  and  then,  inspired  by 
a  single  thought,  the  audience  rose,  leaped  to  the 
benches — to  the  backs  of  the  pews — to  the  railing  around 
the  gallery — to  the  altar  steps — wherever  foot  could 
cling — and  burst  into  a  torrent  of  assent. 

Martin  stood -powerless  to  check  the  demonstration. 
The  people,  filling  the  church  to  its  farthest  corners, 
swayed  before  him  like  an  ocean  wave  dashing  on  the 
rocky  coast  of  Maine.  Men  stamped,  women  waved 
their  handkerchiefs,  hymn-books  and  Bibles  were 
thrown  high  in  the  air;  the  dust  rose  in  clouds.  And 
through  it  roared  the  voices  of  a  people  in  uncontrolled 
emotion. 

Martin  lifted  both  arms  and  motioned  dumbly  for 
silence. 

Before  him  raged  a  throng  mad  in  revolt  at  existing 
conditions.  But  their  anger  was  not  aimed  at  him, 
as  it  was  that  night  in  the  old  Wesley  an  chapel. 

His  face  was  colorless.  He  waved  a  hand  across 
the  surging  sea  of  heads  and  motioned  to  the  leader 
of  the  choir. 

A  deep,  protracted  note  rolled  from  the  organ.  There 
was  a  sudden  lull.     Martin's  clear  voice  rang  out : 

"  My  native  country,  thee; 
Land  of  the  noble  free  : 
Thy  name  I  love." 

347 


Martin    Brook 

A  thousand  voices  caught  the  tune.  Reason  was 
restored. 

But  now  those  opening  days  were  past.  The  war 
was  not  ended  in  thirty  days,  as  so  many  had  boasted 
it  would  be.  A  year  had  dragged  its  way  along,  and 
Martin  was  sitting  in  his  study,  sore  at  heart  because 
of  Lincoln's  persistent  evasion  of  the  one  great  issue. 
Peace  and  Union  with  slavery,  or,  at  most,  a  com- 
pensated emancipation,  seemed  to  be  the  purpose  in 
the  President's  mind.  The  distress  in  the  commercial 
world  was  great.  New  industries  were  springing  up 
to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  hour ;  but  men  were  grow- 
ing sordid,  vulgarly  rich,  and  ostentatious.  Old  houses, 
dependent  upon  Southern  trade,  and  wrecked  by  re- 
pudiation of  debts  contracted  under  the  lax  system  of 
the  early  times,  were  going  down  to  *uin.  Men  were 
thrown  out  of  employment ;  there  was  endless  suffering, 
and  no  recourse  for  the  idle  but  enlistment.  Nearly 
every  home  was  saddened  with  a  personal  loss  of  dear 
ones.  And  to  crown  all,  there  were  disasters,  jealousies, 
and  discords  in  the  field. 

It  was  at  such  a  moment  as  this  that  Mary  came 
quickly  into  the  study  one  day  with  an  open  news- 
paper in  her  hand. 

"Martin/'  she  said,  eagerly,  "what  do  \Tou  think 
has  happened?" 

"Not  another  defeat!"  he  exclaimed.  "Don't  tell 
me  that!" 

"No,  it's  not  war  news — something  local,  here  in 
Albany."  She  read:  "'The  well-known  and  long- 
established  house  of  Graham  &  Ketchum,  manufac- 
turers of  straw  goods,  has  gone  down. ' ' 

"Graham  &  Ketchum  failed!"  Martin  repeated. 

"Yes,"  Mary  went  on.  "Listen,  there  is  worse  to 
come :  '  This  morning  the  bod}7  of  Jabez  Ketchum 
was  found  in  the  river.     Investigation  revealed  the  fact 

348 


Martin    Brook 

that  his  firm  was  irretrievably  involved,  owing  to  com- 
plications with  Southern  houses." 

"'As  ye  sow,  so  shall  ye  reap/"  Martin  said,  in  a 
low  tone. 

" '  Mr.  Sidney  Graham  is  not  in  the  city/  "  Mary  con- 
tinued to  read,  "'so  far  as  could  be  learned.  It  was 
reported  at  his  office  that  Mr.  Graham  started  for  New 
York,  night  before  last,  to  accompany  Mrs.  Graham 
to  the  steamer,  which  was  to  sail  for  Havre  to-day. 
No  one  at  the  office  could  give  information  regarding 
Mr.  Graham's  plans,  but  it  is  rumored  that  he  will  not 
go  abroad.  He  has  been  notified  of  his  partner's  death/  ' 
3  "Poor  Ketchum!"  Martin  said,  rising  and  pacing 
the  floor.  In  the  thought  of  this  man's  appalling  end, 
he  forgave  the  injury  the  man  had  done  him. 

These  pages  cannot  hold  the  history  of  the  war; 
their  measure  is  the  story  of  a  single  soul. 

A  zealous  but  a  truthful  soul,  true  to  itself  and  to 
its  understanding  of  a  God  personal  and  real.  Yet, 
as  the  years  wore  the  rough  edges  of  his  opinions 
smooth,  this  God  became  to  him  less  punitive,  and  more 
fatherly,  more  loving. 

The  way  he  had  traversed  to  reach  this  new  con- 
ception was  long  since  faded  into  the  twilight  of  memory ; 
but  from  the  western  mountain-tops,  in  the  rarer  at- 
mosphere of  tolerance  and  love,  he  saw  the  broader 
view  of  men  and  motives.  His  horizon  now  was  traced 
only  with  the  spiritual  eye;  his  way  illumined  with 
transcendent  Faith. 

He  still  held  to  the  duty  nearest  his  hand— a  duty 
like  this  which  now,  at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
year  of  the  civil  strife,  is  occupying  his  mind.  He  is 
prepared  to  speak  to  the  people  on  Independence  Day, 
not  from  his  pulpit  or  in  the  camp,  but  in  the  Capitol 
park.     Albany  is  alive  to  every  patriotic  impulse. 

349 


Martin    Brook 

Martin  was  awakened  this  morning  by  the  clanging  of 
bells  and  the  booming  of  guns.  He  went  to  the  window 
and  threw  open  the  green  shutters. 

"  Oh,  Martin/'  said  Man7.  "  Can't  3rou  get  one  more 
nap?  It  is  not  sunrise — 3^011  need  not  be  on  the  grounds 
before  noon/' 

"It's  long  after  sunrise.  The  day  will  be  warm." 
He  dressed  and  stood  before  the  window,  watching  a 
group  of  bo3Ts  in  a  vacant  lot  opposite  to  him.  They 
were  firing  a  toy  cannon  and  exploding  fire-crackers, 
but  his  thoughts  were  on  the  vaster  din  in  the  fair 
Southland. 

"It  is  going  to  be  very  warm/'  Mary  commented. 
"You  must  be  careful.  Don't  go  out  until  the  very 
last  minute.  Dr.  Foster  said  you  ought  not  to  expose 
yourself  to  the  hot  sun  or  do  anything  to  overexcite 
yourself." 

"I  shall  be  very  careful,  dear,"  he  said. 

"You  won't  speak  long,  will  you?  Promise  me 
that  much." 

"There  are  only  a  few  points  I  wish  to  make,"  he 
replied.     "Yes,  I  promise  not  to  overdo." 

He  was  too  disturbed  to  eat,  when  Mary  called  him 
to  breakfast,  and  broke  in  upon  his  reverie.  He  drank 
a  cup  of  coffee,  but  left  his  food  untasted. 

"You'll  surely  be  faint  before  the  exercises  are  over," 
she  pleaded.  "Do  try  to  eat — just  a  little  mouthful. 
See  how  nice  and  fresh  these  eggs  are :  Maria  took 
special  pains  with  your  toast.  Can't  you?"  she  urged, 
as  he  pushed  awa}T  from  the  table. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  really  cannot."  He  stopped  at 
the  door.  "You  are  sure  the  Gortons  will  go  with  you? 
I  hope  the  seats  on  the  Capitol  steps  will  be  well  pro- 
tected from  the  sun.  The  speakers'  stand  is  so  small 
that  you  wouldn't  be  comfortable  there." 

"Don't  think  of  me,  Martin.      We've   arranged  ev- 

350 


Martin    Brook 

erything.  I  shall  be  right  in  line  with  you,"  she 
said. 

He  came  back  and  kissed  her.  "  I'll  carry  the  thought 
of  you  to  sustain  me,  dear.  Now  please  let  me  have 
an  hour  of  quiet  before  I  go.  You  must  start  early. 
I  shall  meet  the  speakers  at  the  Senate  Chamber,  and 
stay  there  until  the  hour  for  the  addresses.' ' 

Under  the  guidance  of  her  friends,  Mary  found  a 
place  on  the  south  section  of  the  improvised  platform 
that  covered  the  steps  of  the  Capitol.  Behind  her,  the 
weather-stained  old  building  was  bright  with  flags 
and  streamers,  festooned  from  the  great  columns  of 
the  portico  to  the  rough  stanchions  of  the  speakers' 
stand,  which  stood  at  the  centre  of  the  wide  steps  leading 
to  the  rotunda.  In  front  of  her  the  gravelled  path 
sloped  eastward  to  the  converging  point  of  the  park, 
out  through  the  iron  gates,  and  merged  into  the  abrupt 
descent  of  State  Street.  Low  wooden  railings  marked 
the  line  of  the  path.  The  sacred  precincts  of  turf  be- 
tween this  walk  and  the  high  iron  fence  on  either  side 
were  open  to  the  trampling  feet  of  thousands.  Tables 
were  constructed  on  the  green,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
and  here  the  multitude  was  being  fed  by  a  corps  of 
voluntary  waiters. 

State  Street,  down  to  Broadway,  was  ablaze  with 
banners,  and  the  cobbled  pavement  resounded  to  the 
tread  of  marching  groups. 

Through  the  trees,  on  the  right,  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  Executive  Mansion  and  the  homes  of  the  old  resi- 
dents, and  to  the  left,  across  the  park  and  street,  the 
cold  gray  pile  of  official  buildings. 

The  hum  of  voices  about  her  was  lost  in  the  roll  of 
drums  and  the  shrill  shrieking  of  fifes,  as  the  school- 
children, in  their  holiday  clothes,  a  tiny  flag  in  each 
child's  hand,  filed  in  through  the  gateway,  marched 
up  to  the  long  table,  and  stood  while  they  ate.     Pres- 

351 


Martin    Brook 

entry,  at  a  motion  of  the  leader's  baton,  the  childish 
voices  took  up  the  air : 

"Strike,  freemen,  for  the  Union; 

Sheathe  your  swords  no  more." 

Mary  was  leaning  forward,  listening  to  the  song, 
when  she  was  startled  by  a  roar  of  artillery  that  shook 
the  windows  of  the  houses  near  the  park,  and  the  clatter 
of  sabres  and  rattle  of  horses'  iron-shod  feet  along  the 
street,  as  a  regiment  of  cavalry  lined  up  along  the 
curb  outside  the  fence,  amid  deafening  shouts  by 
the  people. 

Down  State  Street,  swinging  from  Broadway,  she 
saw  a  regiment  of  infantry,  moving  in  rrrythm  to  the 
blare  of  brass.  Up,  up,  up  it  came,  showing  grandly 
in  perspective,  amid  a  swa3Ting  mass  of  humanity, 
which  opened  to  admit  it,  and  surged  behind  it,  as  the 
regiment  came  on — the  sunlight  glittering  on  the  bayo- 
nets with  dazzling  brightness.  Manoeuvring  as  it 
neared  the  narrow  gate,  the  regiment  marched  in  and 
stretched  in  single  file  up  to  the  stand,  on  either  side 
of  the  walk. 

A  compan3T  of  Zouaves,  in  their  full  red  trousers, 
white  gaiters,  and  jaunty  jackets,  seemed  to  drop  from 
the  sky — so  quickly  did  it  come  dashing  in,  with  sabre- 
ba\7onets  twirling  and  flashing  in  grotesque  evolutions. 

The  crowds  were  wild  in  demonstrations  of  delight. 

But  what  pleased  her  most  was  a  drum-corps  of  boys, 
with  a  gorgeous  drum-major  in  the  lead,  marching  up 
the  path,  and  ranging  in  front  of  the  stand,  rattling 
their  sticks,  tossing  them  into  the  air  and  catching 
them  without  loss  of  a  single  note. 

Mary  clapped  her  hands  and  joined  in  the  applause. 

The  children  were  climbing  on  the  railing  behind 
the  living  wall  of  soldiers,  perching  on  the  iron  fence, 
and  shouting  everywhere. 

352 


Martin    Brook 

A  brass  band  suddenly  stepped  out  from  the  rotunda 
and  along  a  lane  of  people  kept  clear  by  a  company 
of  infantry  with  arms  presented,  down  to  the  speakers' 
stand. 

A  squad  of  men,  surrounding  a  color  -  sergeant, 
emerged  from  the  building,  bearing  the  flag.  As  he 
appeared,  there  was  an  instant  roll  of  drums,  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  and  then  the  clear  note  of  a  cornet,  as 
the  bands  took  up  the  air  of  the  "  Star-Spangled  Ban- 
ner." 

The  sergeant  advanced  to  his  station  to  the  right 
of  the  speakers'  desk,  waved  the  silken  flag  and  caught 
it  in  a  graceful  festoon  about  the  ebony  staff,  and  placed 
it  in  a  corner  formed  by  the  stand  and  the  outer  railing. 

With  a  shout  that  changed  to  a  measured  burst  of 
song,  the  people  carried  the  refrain  and  greeted  the 
officers  and  guests  of  the  day. 

Between  the  Governor  and  the  Mayor,  leading  the 
line  of  speakers,  Mary  saw  Martin  come  out  on  the 
portico  and  down  to  the  seats  reserved  for  the  official 
group.  He  looked  across  the  sea  of  heads  to  where 
she  was p  sitting,  nodded  slightly  and  smiled.  She 
pressed  her  hand  to  her  lips  and  shyly  tossed  him  a  kiss. 

The  opening  ceremonies  went  on :  a  prayer ;  the  read- 
ing of  the  Declaration;  a  brief  address  of  the  govern- 
ment officials  ;  music,  and  singing  by  the  children. 

The  exercises  seemed  long  to  Mary,  who  was  getting 
anxious  because  Martin  looked  so  pale  and  worn.  The 
day  had  become  intolerably  hot. 

"I  wish  they  would  omit  some  of  those  numbers," 
she  said  to  her  friends.  "I'm  really  troubled  about 
Mr.  Brook." 

"Your  anxiety  will  be  very  soon  changed  to  pride," 
Mr.  Gorton  said,  cheeringly.  "  There !  Now  his  chance 
has  come!" 

Martin  rose  and  bowed,  as  the  crowd  greeted  him 
Z  353 


Martin    Brook 

with  applause.  He  had  prepared  a  line  of  thought, 
but,  standing  here  in  the  presence  of  those  he  desired 
to  exhort  to  patriotism,  his  mind  seemed  suddenly  a 
blank.  The  words  would  not  come  to  his  tongue. 
His  hesitancy  was  unobserved  by  every  one  but  Mary. 
She  half  rose  to  her  feet,  with  the  thought  of  going 
to  him ;  but  at  that  moment,  she  heard  him  sa}T : 

"Is  this  the  land  of  the  free?  We  cannot  dispute 
that  it  is  the  land  of  the  brave.  There  is  proof  of  that 
fact,  here  and  in  the  distant  field.  We  have  been 
transformed,  in  a  moment,  from  a  nation  of  peaceful 
industrialists  and  farmers  to  a  nation  of  warriors.  We 
have  done  this  not  to  repel  invaders,  but  to  compel  the 
observance  of  a  principle.     Is  this  the  flag  of  the  free?" 

A  murmur  of  disapproval  ran  through  the  crowd. 
It  acted  like  a  stimulant  on  Martin. 

"Do  you  murmur  at  me,  or  at  the  law?" 

The  men  on  the  platform  stirred  uneasily  in  their 
seats. 

"We  are  all  loyal  to  our  flag,"  he  continued,  "but 
we  do  not  all  agree  as  to  the  method  of  expressing 
that  loyalty.  We  are  freemen,  and  must  exercise  the 
right  of  free  thought ;  but  the  cause  for  which  this  martial 
host  is  assembled  is  not  alone  our  individual  cause — 
it  is  the  cause  of  millions,  to  whom  this  emblem  is  not  a 
symbol  of  freedom ;  to  whom  the  Declaration  you  have 
so  loudly  cheered  is  but  an  empty  boast. 

"  The  time  has  come  when  we  must  question  the  wis- 
dom of  our  leaders.  Leaders,  I  say — not  rulers.  We 
are  our  own  rulers.  We  must  say  to  these  men:  'If 
you  demand  our  blood  and  our  treasure,  3^011  must 
give  us  the  assurance  that  the  sacrifice  is  not  in  vain; 
that  the  preservation  of  the  Union  means,  and  shall  be 
effected  because  of,  the  removal  of  the  accursed  sin 
which  has  ever  imperilled  our  national  existence/  We 
must  demand  of  these  leaders  the  emancipation  of  the 

354 


Martin    Brook 

slave.  More  than  that,  and  as  a  corollary  of  emancipa- 
tion, we  must  demand  that  the  race  so  liberated  shall 
assume  a  part  of  the  burdens  of  this  war.  Man  must 
work  out  his  own  salvation.  No  one  values  a  gift  as 
he  does  a  hard-earned  prize;  and  in  this  priceless  be- 
stowal of  freedom,  we  should  ask  the  co-operation  of 
the  slave." 

A  roar  of  angry  voices  came  to  the  ears  of  those  seated 
above  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  The  restlessness  on  the 
stand  increased,  but  Martin  did  not  heed  it. 

"  It  is  true  that  we  have  robbed  this  race  of  freedom, 
and  in  strict  justice  we  should  return  it,  at  whatsoever 
cost.  But  for  the  future  good  of  the  blacks,  and  to  the 
end  that  they  may  comprehend  the  brotherhood  of  man, 
we  should  ask  them  to  join  in  the  working  out  of  this 
problem.  q         , 

"Emancipate  and  arm  the  blacks—"  — -  Qo-oJL**. 

A  yell  of  infuriation  broke  upon  him,  drowning  the 
sound  of  his  voice. 

It  was  the  cry  of  a  maddened  people — the  cry  of  a 
mob  bereft  of  reason  and  furious  with  passion.  It  was 
a  cry  like  that  he  had  heard  in  Troy — one  never  to  be 
forgotten ;  one  that  never  varies. 

Martin  turned  towards  the  point  whence  it  came. 
Could  it  be  that  the  people  were  angry  with  him — that 
they  resented  his  words  and  once  more  sought  his  life  ? 

"Hang  him!  Kill  him!  Hang  him!"  Martin  heard 
them  scream. 

Every  one  on  the  platform  rose.  The  crowd  in  the 
park  swayed  and  struggled. 

Mary  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  held  her  hands  towards 
Martin.  But  at  that  moment  she  saw  it  was  not  Martin 
who  was  menaced.  A  man  was  fighting  his  way  on 
the  edge  of  the  throng,  immediately  beneath  the  stand — 
he  was  trying  to  climb  up  on  it,  just  in  front  of  Martin. 
He  had  fought  and  been  hustled  along  by  some  who 

355 


Martin    Brook 

were  evidently  trying  to  rescue  him,  not  because  they 
seemed  to  be  his  friends,  but  evidently  to  avert  a  public 
disgrace. 

The  man  had  wrenched  a  board  from  the  stand,  and 
was  clambering  up,  putting  his  foot  in  the  aperture 
and  clinging  to  the  railing. 

The  mass  was  dense  about  him.  Those  nearest 
him  were  bracing  themselves  against  the  crushing 
force  behind,  and  fighting  for  their  own  release.  Wom- 
en fainted  and  children  were  trampled  upon. 

Farther  back,  unable  to  reach  the  object  of  their  rage, 
men  were  gesticulating  and  throwing  a  rope  in  the  air, 
crjang  out  their  orders  to  those  in  front. 

"  Pull  him  down !  Take  hold  of  his  leg !  Pull  him 
down!" 

Mary  saw  Martin  reach  over  the  railing  and  grasp 
the  man — who  was  hatless,  whose  clothes  were  torn — 
and  drag  him  on  to  the  stand.  She  saw  the  foremost 
of  the  pursuers  leap  upon  the  rail,  and  Martin  lean  for- 
ward to  hold  them  back.  Even7  motion,  every  word 
was  plain. 

The  man  turned  his  face  towards  her. 

It  was  Sidney  Graham. 

"  What  is  it?"  Martin  demanded. 

"Get  out  of  our  way!"  the  men  cried.  "Give  him 
up,  or  we'll  pull  the  whole  thing  down !" 

Graham  sank  behind  the  frail  barrier,  as  the  men 
began  to  tear  the  stand  to  pieces. 

Martin  reached  for  the  flag.  He  planted  the  staff 
at  his  feet,  shook  the  folds  loose,  and  flung  them  about 
Graham. 

"No!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  men  hesitated  an  instant,  and  dropped  to  the 
ground. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  Martin  asked. 
"He's  a  rebel!"  the  men  yelled,  shaking  their  fists. 

356 


Martin    Brook 

"You  can't  save  him.  He  just  now  damned  you  for 
an  abolitionist,  and  he  said  Lincoln  was  a  mudsill  and 
ought  to  be  shot!" 

"Yes,  yes!"  others  cried.  "We  heard  him.  Hang 
him!"  They  surged  forward,  though  with  decreas- 
ing force. 

"No,"  said  Martin,  still  holding  the  flag.  "You 
shall  not  violate  the  law.  While  he  is  here,  under 
the  Stars  and  Stripes,  he  is  protected  by  all  the  power 
of  this  nation.  He  is  guaranteed  the  right  of  trial  by 
jury." 

All  but  the  assailants  burst  into  applause. 

"Listen  to  reason/'  Martin  went  on.  "There  is 
no  man  on  earth  who  hates  me  more,  nor  for  whom 
I  have  a  deeper  contempt,  than  this  poor  trembling 
wretch.  He  has  done  me  personal  wrong  —  he  has 
often  insulted  me.  If  there  is  any  one  here  who  would 
be  excused  for  refusing  him  assistance,  probably  I  am 
that  one.  I  care  nothing  for  the  man,  except  to  pity 
him ;  but  he  cowers  here  now,  the  representative  victim 
of  an  idea  I  have  combatted  for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
I  have  declared  for  years  the  right  of  every  man,  however 
despicable  or  ignorant  or  criminal — white  or  black — 
to  a  trial  by  jury.  This  flag  is,  for  once,  at  least,  the 
emblem  of  a  holy  power.  I  am  not  seeking  to  deprive 
you  of  a  single  privilege  under  the  law ;  but  I  am  trying 
to  show  j^ou  that  laws  must  be  obeyed;  and  that  to 
inculcate  reverence  and  obedience  we  must  make  our 
laws  the  laws  of  justice." 

Again  he  was  interrupted  by  cheers.  The  point 
was  won. 

"Now  that  wTe  are  rational,"  he  resumed,  "I  turn 
this  man  over  to  the  hand  of  recognized  authority." 

He  drew  away  the  flag  and  motioned  to  the  police. 
An  officer  lifted  Graham  and  hurried  him  into  the 
rotunda. 

357 


Martin    Brook 

Martin  clung  to  the  railing  a  moment,  overcome  by 
the  excitement. 

"I  must  crave  37our  indulgence/'  he  said,  feebly. 
"I  am — not — strong — enough — " 

He  wavered.  A  friendly  hand  steadied  him  as 
he  walked  slowly  into  the  Capitol. 

Mary  hastened  as  she  was  able — the  crowd  making 
way  for  her — into  the  Governor's  room.  Martin,  seat- 
ed in  a  chair,  attended  b}7  friends,  held  out  his  hand 
and  smiled,  as  she  ran  tearf  ulfy  to  him. 

"It's  nothing  —  just  a  momentary  weakness,"  he 
insisted. 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes,"  she  said.     "  We'll  go  home." 

"  Home  is  a.  restful  place,"  he  said,  musingly.  "  How 
strangely  things  come  about." 

"Don't  think  of  it  any  more,"  she  commanded,  in 
her  gently  authoritative  way. 

Martin  was  unusually  reticent  for  several  days. 
He  was  absorbed  in  thought,  and  3?et  he  did  not  take 
Mary  into  his  confidence.  She  became  greatly  dis- 
tressed. The  weather  continued  to  be  depressingly 
hot,  and  she  urged  him  to  go  away  from  the  city  and 
the  constant  stress  of  the  times. 

"You  owe  it  to  yourself,  dear,"  she  said.  "Please 
let  us  go  somewhere  for  a  little  change. " 

"Why  not  go  somewhere  for  a  big  change?"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  touch  of  his  old  -  time  humor.  "  Why 
not  go  to  Michigan?" 

"Can  we  afford  it?  That  is  such  a  long  journey," 
she  said,  trembling  at  the  suggestion  of  going  to 
Tom. 

"I  don't  mean  a  visit,"  he  said,  "but  a  home."  He 
sat  silent  for  several  minutes.  "  That  idea  of  a  home 
is  taking  possession  of  me  like  a  passion.  I  should 
like  to  feel  the  extraordinarv   pleasure   of  having  a 

358" 


Martin    Brook 

permanent  address  before — before  it  is  carved  on  a 
bit  of  marble." 

"Martin!"  she  said,  stopping  her  ears.  "Why 
do  3rou  make  such  awful  speeches?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  all  my  other  speeches  are  not 
likely  to  fetch  me  a  home.  Wouldn't  it  be  delightful 
to  screw  my  door-plate  on  a  front  door  and  say :  '  Stay 
there,  you  poor  wanderer ! ' ' 

"It  would  be  like  a  foretaste  of  heaven/ '  she  said, 
sighing,  " if  we  could  have  Tommy  with  us." 

"Of  course.  We  can't  think  of  asking  him  to  give 
up  his  chance  in  the  West.  I  have  written  to  Chiches- 
ter, who  is  back  in  Michigan  now,  after  seeing  service 
at  the  front,  and  is  raising  a  regiment.  We  can't 
look  for  a  reply  immediately,  though;  and  we  must 
wait  until  my  year  is  up,  you  know.  We  must  wait 
patiently." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "We've  learned  how  to  do  that, 
dear." 

And  while  they  waited,  the  summer  burned  itself 
away — burned  with  a  fervid  heat — melting  the  shackles 
from  the  slave,  setting  the  bondman  free. 


Chapter  XVI 

CONTEMPLATING  the  mighty  change  that  was 
worked  by  the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation;  realiz- 
ing that  the  labor  of  redemption  was  yet  to  come,  and 
conscious  that  he  was  no  longer  young,  Martin  gravely 
shook  his  head  at  the  thought  of  undertaking  a  new 
work — the  work  of  reconstruction. 

"It  is  not  a  part  of  my  duty,  Mary/'  he  said. 
"Younger  men  must  assume  the  burdens  of  the  black 
race.  The  liberation  of  the  slaves  does  not,  in  a  single 
moment,  blot  out  the  ill  effects  of  slaver}7.  This  war 
will  last  until  the  people  are  compelled  to  spend  their 
utmost  strength;  but  the  Union  cause  will  prevail. 
And  then  will  come  a  period  of  chaos.  Human  nature 
is  not  altered  b}T  this  mere  verbal  declaration.  A  gen- 
eration or  two  must  pass  before  there  can  come  an 
appreciation  of  the  error." 

"Dear  Martin/'  she  said,  "let  us  kiy  aside  the  Cru- 
sader's armor." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "it  is  no  longer 
a  crusade,  it  is  a  campaign  of  education.  And  that 
reminds  me,  Mary,  that  I  saw  old  Enoch  the  other  day. 
Old  as  he  is,  he  has  been  down  South  gathering  to- 
gether some  of  the  children  of  his  relations.  He  has 
brought  them  here.     They  are  a  sorry  lot." 

"And  37ou  helped  them?" 

"A  little.  I  found  places  for  two  of  the  younger 
ones.  You  know  I  owe  Enoch  more  than  I  can  ever 
repay." 

360 


Martin    Brook 

"  I  owe  him  still  more — your  life  and  love,"  she  said. 

Martin  looked  at  Mary.  She  was  crying  softly, 
with  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  —  that  gesture  so 
characteristic  of  her.  His  own  eyes  were  moist.  They 
were  both  silent  for  a  time.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand 
and  she  took  it,  nestling  close  to  him. 

"Dear  one,"  he  whispered,  "we  have  had  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century  of  blessed  married  life.  God  has 
taught  us  one  thing — how  to  love." 

He  bent  above  her  head,  now  tinged  with  silver, 
and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips. 

Spring  came,  bringing  Tom  from  the  wilderness, 
with  the  air  of  the  pines  and  the  hope  of  youth.  They 
were  going  West!  Chichester  had  sent  the  money  for 
their  journey ;  the  die  was  cast. 

The  old  red  boxes  and  the  wooden  chests  that  had 
served  Martin  faithfully  for  many  years,  were  brought 
out  for  the  last  time,  and  packed  with  the  household 
goods.  There  was  hustle  and  bustle  in  the  Hudson 
Street  house. 

At  last  the  work  of  preparation  was  completed.  The 
final  Sunday  of  Martin's  conference  year  was  come. 
He  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  a  new  da}\  His  going 
did  not  mean  the  giving  up  of  ministerial  functions, 
but  merely  the  putting  off  of  the  active  relations  with 
his  Church,  and  the  putting  on  of  some  softer  garment 
than  a  coat  of  mail. 

His  church  was  thronged  when  he  entered  it  on  this 
day.  Upon  the  platform  were  ministers  and  men  of 
note  who  had  come  to  hear  his  farewell  sermon. 

They  had  asked  him  to  make  this  a  review  of  his 
life-work,  but  he  had  told  them  that  such  a  statement 
must  be  left  to  others. 

One  of  his  friends  grasped  his  hand  as  he  ascended 
the  pulpit. 

361 


Martin    Brook 

"This  is  a  glorious  day  for  3-011,  Brother  Brook/' 
his  friend  said. 

"It  is  a  sad  day/'  Martin  answered,  "but  I  rejoice 
that  our  people  have  found  the  truth  at  last." 

He  took  his  place  on  the  pulpit  sofa,  waiting  for  the 
time  when  he  must  begin  the  service. 

And  as  he  sat  there  he  saw  old  Enoch,  white-haired 
and  bent  with  years,  leaning  on  his  crooked  stick, 
elbowing  his  way  along  the  aisle,  looking  for  a  place 
to  sit. 

There  was  not  a  vacant  seat  in  the  church. 

The  old  man  turned  to  go. 

Martin  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  platform,  called  to 
him  and  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"Enoch,"  he  said,  "here  is  a  place."  He  pointed  to 
the  pulpit  steps. 

"Can  I  set  heah,  Marse  Martin,  heah  on  de  gorspel 
steps,  right  close  to  yo'  blessed  feet,  sah?" 

"Yes,  Enoch,  dear  old  man,  sit  down.  I'm  sorry 
there  isn't  a  more  comfortable  seat  for  37ou." 

"Is  comf 'table  whenever  I  heahs  yo'  voice." 

The  old  man  bowed  low  and  dropped  down  on  the 
steps. 

Madia  walked  slowly  to  the  desk.  He  had  no  notes, 
but  stood  a  moment  or  two,  looking  out  over  the  con- 
gregation, until  his  e3'es  rested  on  Mary  and  Tom 
in  the  pew  before  him.  He  laid  the  Bible  open  to  his 
text,  and  said,  in  that  vibrant  tone  which  thrilled  all 
listeners :  ■ 

"When  Paul  wrote  from  Rome,  after  his  second 
summons  before  Nero,  and  laid  his  heart  bare  before 
Timothy,  he  declared :  '  I  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I 
have  finished  my  course,  I  have  kept  the  faith. ' 

"  To-night  those  words  come  ringing  to  my  ears, 
across  the  silence  of  the  centuries,  through  the  bellow 
of  war  and  the  glad  shouts  of  liberated  millions.     The 

362 


Martin    Brook 

present  din  is  penetrated  by  their  sound.  They  pierce 
the  nearer  earthly  roar,  like  an  arrow  from  the  heavenly 
host.     They  are  spiritual  words. 

"For  more  than  thirty  years  I  have  been  engaged 
in  the  service  of  the  Church,  and  now  I  am  asked  to 
give  a  review  of  that  eventful  period.  But  such  a 
task  is  beyond  my  strength.  We  are  yet  too  near  those 
scenes  to  treat  calmly  of  them ;  and  it  is  not  of  the  past, 
but  of  the  future  we  must  speak.  Younger  shoulders 
than  ours  of  the  veteran  class  must  assume  a  load  no 
less  heavy  than  we  have  borne.  A  new  era  is  dawn- 
ing. The  excitement  of  this  movement  makes  us 
oblivious  to  the  real  meaning  of  emancipation.  We 
have  now  to  take  up  the  herculean  task  of  liberating 
the  minds  and  souls  of  those  whose  bodies,  for  the 
first  time  in  our  national  history,  are  become  free." 

In  this  vein,  simply  and  unassumingly,  he  foretold 
the  progress  of  events.  The  gift  of  prophecy  de- 
scended upon  him  like  a  tongue  of  fire.  His  hearers 
sat  entranced. 

As  one  of  his  best  friends  declared,  in  speaking  after- 
wards of  the  man  he  loved  : "  I  cannot  in  my  life  remember 
to  have  been  more  moved  by  human  speech.  I  seemed 
to  see  a  shining  nimbus  above  his  head.  His  words 
of  tenderness  stirred  all  to  tears,  and  his  power  of  scorn 
was  something  terrible  to  hear.  His  majestic  presence ; 
his  searching  eye;  his  masterly  acquaintance  with  all 
that  is  most  vigorous  in  our  Anglo-Saxon  speech; 
his  commanding  voice  and  quiet  gesture,  intensified 
by  the  powers  of  a  grand,  vehement  soul  ablaze  for 
the  truth;  and  our  knowledge  that  he  had  suffered 
persecution  for  this  truth,  combined  to  leave  upon  our 
minds  a  most  tremendous  impression.  It  was  the 
climax  of  a  zeal  that  knew  no  limitation  in  those  dark 
ages  of  American  history  when  Martin  Brook  defied 
the  forces  of  Church  and  State,  and  stood  almost  alone 

3£>3 


Martin    Brook 

in  his  conception  of  the  method  of  dealing  with  this  great 
evil — stood  forth,  braving  the  world,  a  pronounced, 
an  intellectual,  a  spiritual,  an  uncompromising  abo- 
litionist. " 

But  in  this  moment  of  supreme  realization  of  the  re- 
quirements of  the  hour,  Martin  did  not  vaunt  himself. 
As  in  the  past,  so  in  the  present,  he  spoke  only  of  the 
abstract  idea. 

Then,  while  the  people  sat  breathless  in  their  eager- 
ness to  lose  no  word,  he  paused. 

"Dear  friends/'  he  said.  "I  have  already  spoken 
beyond  the  limit  of  my  time;  but  there  is  one  personal 
word  I  must  utter  before  I  leave  this  Conference  forever. 
I  must  ask  those  of  3Tou — if  am-  there  be — whom  I 
heretofore  differed  with  and  offended,  to  forgive  me, 
even  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven.  During  these  long 
3Tears  I  have  learned  that  the  Spirit  leads  us  to  the  Light. 
Many  years  ago,  on  the  banks  of  this  river  which  flows 
by  us,  with  its  unceasing  lesson  of  the  purity  of  its 
source  and  its  final  mergence  into  the  sea,  I  found  God 
and  prayed  that  He  would  help  me  to  know  the  Truth. 
That  knowledge  came  in  a  manner  unexpected.  I 
learned  that '  the  Spirit  itself  beareth  witness  with  our 
spirit/  and  that  all  humanity  are  the  children  of  God, 
regardless  of  race,  color,  or  condition.  We,  as  a  people, 
have  yet  much  to  learn :  first  of  all,  to  learn  to  be  tolerant, 
considerate,  loving  one  another  in  Christ;  for  Christ 
came  into  the  world  to  prove  that  the  Spirit  is  greater 
than  the  flesh,  and  that  our  Heavenly  Father  is — is 
— Love — " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  a  choking  sound  in  his  throat. 
He  lifted  his  hand  to  his  head ;  he  tried  to  draw  a  long 
breath  as  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  heart.  He  swayed 
and  turned  partly  around. 

"Mary/'  he  gasped,  "the  Light!     The  Light \" 

Men  sprang  up  and  caught  him  as  he  fell. 

364 


Martin    Brook 


The  congregation  started  to  its  feet.  A  voice  rang 
out: 

"The  audience  will  please  remain  seated.  Brother 
Brook  has  fainted.     Is  there  a  doctor  present?" 

Mary  and  Tom  were  by  his  side  in  an  instant. 

Enoch  was  kneeling  on  the  pulpit  steps,  his  face 
upturned,  his  hands — the  hands  that  the  law  had 
freed  from  the  shackles  of  the  slave — held  out  in  bene- 
diction. 

A  man  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  in  a 
low  voice  said — 

"Martin  Brook,  the  Conscientious,  has  received  his 
final  appointment.  He  has--entered  upon  the  commu- 
nion of  the  saints."        /  y/Ls 

J*€^z 7 

(Em-'   \jH 


& 


I 


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